


A Case of Identity

by feardubh, orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Johnlock - Freeform, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Murder, Murder Mystery, Post Reichenbach, Psychoanalysis, Racism, Referenced Characters, Reichenbach Falls
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-05-18
Packaged: 2017-11-27 13:48:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 44,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/662690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feardubh/pseuds/feardubh, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John thinks he sees an old friend on a crowded street and later sends a message to a phone he knows is dead, only to have the number respond.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hello, Stranger

**Author's Note:**

> In case any of you are familiar enough with the titles of Arthur Conan Doyle's original short stories, I'd like to say that the working title of this fic has nothing to do with the original "Case of Identity" and any plot similarities are accidental.

_Sherlock, I know this number was probably discontinued long ago, but I just wanted to send something. False hope, I guess. I thought I saw you today. There's probably thousands of tall, dark haired men in greatcoats in London, but... I dunno. He looked like you. It's been three years, Sherlock, and my life is now an empty shell of what it used to be, but I guess I aught to accept the fact that you're gone. -JW_

_It wasn't me. I won't be back in London for another week. SH_ **[Message Not Sent]**

 _I miss you. SH_ **[Message Not Sent]**

 _He probably wasn't as handsome as me. SH_ **[Message Not Sent]**

 _Sorry. Forget that. Still miss you. SH_ **[Message Not Sent]**

_It's hard to try and live in the flat by myself. It took me a while to even be able to come back to that place at all, and of course I kept all of your things. I believed in you, and I suppose that belief carried on far past your death. It still smelled like you for a while, enough that I'd wake up and think you were still there, but I miss the sound of the violin enough to know that you're long gone. -JW_

_I could have taught you to play it. It's hardly difficult. SH_ **[Message Not Sent]**

 _I hope you kept my mineral samples, it took me ages to track those down. SH_ **[Message Not Sent]**

_Mrs Hudson wont even look at me anymore. We barely speak. I know I should have kept up a better front, but there came a point where I didn't really care if she knew I was sad. I feel out of place without a tall, dark figure at my side. You were a complete arse of a flatmate, a complete narcissist, and an outirght jerk to almost everyone who knew you, and you were my best friend and a very good man. As much as I hate you for leaving me, I miss you. -JW_

_I am uncertain if you're trying to insult me or compliment me. SH_ **[Message Not Sent]**

 _You were the good man, John. You ARE a good man. Better than I ever was. SH_ **[Message Not Sent]**

_I miss you too. SH_

_SHERLOCK??? -JW_

* * *

 

Sherlock stared at his mobile for a long time. Dammit. He hadn't meant to send it. Too late to take it back now. Maybe if he just didn't answer, John would think he was seeing things. The sounds of the crowd continued around him, but the detective stood still as passerby parted around him like water over a river stone, lost in his own world. All the months of hiding and pain and loneliness spoiled by a touch of his hand- _that's what you get when you let your heart control your head, Sherlock._ He sighed and stuffed the phone back into his pocket.

 

* * *

 

**[no reply]**

_You little arse. Where the hell have you been? Do you have any idea what these last three years have been like? -JW_

**[no reply]**

_Come home. -JW_

_I can't, John. SH_ **[Message Not Sent]**

 _I doubt you'll ever want to see me again. SH_ **[Message Not Sent]**

 _I owe you a thousand apologies. I am so, so sorry. SH_ **[Message Not Sent]**

_Sherlock, come home. Please, please come home. I can't be here without you. When I met you, you showed me a whole new world, one of color and excitement. When I walked with you I saw the battlefields, and even after you were gone I couldn't stop seeing them, but I couldn't see them the right way. I couldn't go back to my boring life and I couldn't continue my life as it had been with you- how could I write the story without the most important person? Please don't make me try any more. I can't walk either path. -JW_

_Two hours. SH_

_So you'll come? -JW_

_Yes. SH_

John sat back in his chair, his fingers trembling slightly as a mixture of fear and elation coursed through him. His thoughts were wild; he'sbackhe'salivehe'scominghomesherlocksherlockSHERLOCK!

_Thank you. -JW_

* * *

 

Sherlock let out a slow breath. He hadn't planned on returning to London for another five days or so, still trying to plan out how - and even _if_ \- he was going to tell John. But now it didn't matter. His heart ached in his chest for his best friend. _John. My John. I'm coming home._ He made a phone call and boarded the next available train to London.

The train ride was agonizingly long. Sherlock was restless in his seat, staring out the window, then at the roof, then at his mobile. His fingers twitched, and he so desperately wanted to talk to John. But what would he say? After three years of silence, broken by a careless slip of a finger, he didn't know what to say. As the familiar skyline of London slowly appeared on the horizon, he tapped the message button on his mobile and attempted to break the silence.

 

* * *

 

The doctor sat up, slipping his mobile into his pocket and gazing around the living room. The flat wasn't messy-- quite the contrary. It looked unlived in, as if someone had carted boxes of things and arranged them in the semblance of a person's life made physical. The tables were cleared, books untouched on their shelves. The bedroom in the back was just as Sherlock had left it; John had shut the door three years ago and pretended it didn't exist. There were no personal belongings, no pictures or notes left by the doctor, save one. A single photograph sat underneath the yellowed skull in the corner of the living room, and John hurried toward it, sliding it from beneath the bone carefully. It was the last snapshot of the two of them, kept hidden.

_Is Anderson still working at the lab? SH_

_Yes. And he's still an idiotic jerk. -JW_

_Is he still shagging Donovan? I would be surprised if they are, after all this time. Presumably his wife has finally left him at this point. SH_

_I'm not really sure. After you left, I fell out of that group and I'm not really sure what's going on anymore. Lestrade was the only one I kept up with, and we only speak rarely these days. -JW_

_Oh. That is unfortunate. SH_

_Indeed. You know, for a while Molly would stop by the flat every week and invite me out to coffee or give me condolences. The lot of them treated me like a grieving widow. -JW_

_But enough about that. What have you been up to? -JW_

Sherlock smirked at "grieving widow". Everyone had always thought of them as a couple - he found it amusing that it had continued, even after his "death".

_If you give me 15 minutes, I shall tell you in person. SH_

Oh god. He would be here. His friend would return at last; John hoped that he'd be able to keep his questions at bay. He took the stairs two at a time and flipped the bolt on the door, then sat on the first step. Impatience caused his fingers to tap anxiously against his leg as he waited.

_The door's unlocked. -JW_

* * *

 

If it were even possible, the cab ride from the train station to Baker Street felt longer than the train ride. Sherlock closed his eyes and concentrated on his heartbeat. It was racing in his chest, and he was trying to rationally calm it down. _It is just John. He is the same John. You are the same Sherlock. Nothing but an interlude in the middle of a song._ The more he assured himself it was fine, the more he was convinced that it wasn't fine. He made his way to the front door and slowly turned the handle. A burst of familiarity greeted him - the smell of the cleaner Mrs. Hudson used, the soft glow of the overhead lamp, that godawful wallpaper that adorned the hallway . . . and of course, a blonde-haired army doctor who was waiting for him at the end of the stairs.

He stepped into the flat and closed the door softly behind him. "John." He meant to say more, but no words came out.

 

* * *

 

Suddenly he was in motion, muscles pulling in a movement of sureness and instinct as John rose and threw his arms around the detective. Yes, there was part of him that was furious at the abandonment, and another that was filled with an ache that time would be hard pressed to erase, but for one moment the doctor was filled with a rush of joy and sorrow that blended into a more sweet than bitter combination inside him. Oh. He smelled the same. He'd missed that smell. John buried his face in Sherlock's greatcoat, hands slipping down to grasp the fabric as a single shuddering sob shook him silently. "I missed you, you fuck."

Sherlock stood frozen for a moment, unsure of what to do. In the entire time he'd known John, they'd never done more touching than handshakes,  unless you counted that night they held hands and escaped from the police in handcuffs. After a few seconds, he slowly lifted his arms to embrace his friend, tears welling up in his eyes. He hadn't expected it to hurt this much. "John," he choked out, "I am . . . so . . . so sorry."

"You're here..." the doctor looked up, his eyes gleaming with tears he hadn't shed since he walked away from Sherlock's tombstone. "How did you survive?" Desperately John wished he could keep his voice even, but as he spoke it broke gently. "Never mind... you're here." Just knowing he was alive was a great relief, but to have the detective here in front of him left John awash with emotion. Pain, and sadness, and joy. "Sherlock, I've missed you a great deal."

"And I, you, John." Sherlock placed his hands on either side of John's face and stared at him for a long time. "Oh, John. The things I could tell you. The things I should tell you. And you must have a thousand questions you want answered, I know you do. I will try my best to answer them, but there are some things I just can't explain, or things that you must never know, because I wouldn't want you to be in danger, and . . ." He trailed off, realizing he was rambling. "John, I'm so sorry," he repeated, tears rolling down his cheeks.

John reached up and brushed away Sherlock's tears with his thumb. This was a Sherlock he had never seen, save perhaps moments before his death. He could see the intensity of his emotion welling up behind those strange icy eyes and the pain in his partner's face made his heart wrench. "It's okay, of course it's okay. You're safe and here, and you don't have to explain anything right now. Later, yes, but not now." John's eyes traced the detective's face slowly, curving along his cheekbones, the bend of his lips, staring with a fierceness into his eyes of impossible color. There were bruise-like shadows under his eyes, made all the more apparent by his unusually pale skin. He looked, if it was possible, even thinner than he'd "Sherlock, come upstairs. There's leftovers from dinner and tea and..." John trailed of, his voice but a cracked whisper before it fell into silence.

Sherlock nodded. "Tea would be nice," he said softly. He pushed past John and started up the stairs, desperately wiping the tears from his face. He opened the door into the flat and surveyed the room. It was basically the same, except much cleaner and organized than when he had left it. It occurred to him that this wasn't his home anymore. He hadn't lived here in three years. He clasped his hands behind his back and walked around the room until saw his violin case near the fireplace. He knelt down and ran his fingers over the case. "May I?" he asked, glancing up at John.

"Please." Oh god, as much as he hated that thing at three in the morning he'd missed it singing through the flat since Sherlock had gone. John turned his back to the detective and moved slowly to the kitchen, feeling self-conscious. There was a kettle on the back burner of the stove and a few tins of tea in the pantry. Pour. Fill. Drop. Twist. It was a nice activity, making tea; it kept the mind almost as busy as the hands and the result was comforting and warm. The sugar rustled in its box and the cups made light, delicate clinks on the counter. John leaned against the counter as he waited for the water to boil, one hand draped across his face.

Sherlock slowly pulled the violin out of its case. The strings were rusty and out of tune, and he plucked mindlessly at them as he attempted to tune it back into submission. He picked up the bow and nestled the violin under his chin. This felt familiar - standing in the living room of 221B, John making tea, his violin beneath his fingers. He was out of practice, but he pulled the bow across the strings and played a simple tune, closing his eyes and turning to face John as he played. He picked up speed as his fingers adjusted, the notes filling their tiny flat.

Tak. Tak-tak.

Tears against the worn hardwood floor made soft noises as they fell and splattered and John's shoulders shook slightly as he listened to the strings dancing through the air. The sounds made for a strange music; sorrowful and sweet. He rubbed his hands across his face and turned to the sink, bracing his arms on the counter as he leaned over it. The kettle at his side began to rumble, then it sang its own note. _No, you can't join in. He plays too beautifully for an accompaniment._ John pulled the kettle from the stove and poured its contents into two cups before returning it to the stove and cutting the heat. Tea leaves, sugar, cream followed and he took a cup in each hand as he moved back to the detective.

Sherlock heard John set the kettle back down on the stove top, so he drew out the last note and slowly lowered the violin. He placed it gently back in its case and took a cup from John before settling into his armchair. He took a sip and tapped his fingers against the porcelain. "So," he said slowly, "I, um . . . I suppose . . . well, I would think that . . ." He trailed off, his words failing him. _John. My John. My John is here, with me._ He had a million things he wanted to say, and yet his mouth would not cooperate with him.

John held Sherlock's gaze as he sat and cradled his cup in his lap. The detective's jaw worked, his neck shifted as he swallowed, and the doctor noted these movements with careful concern. "Sherlock, I've never seen you at a loss for words. Just say whatever's on your mind." he said quietly, dropping his eyes to his tea. Slowly bringing the cup to his lips, John tasted sweetness that seemed out of place on his tongue. He ached to break the awkwardness, to see his friend spring up with that manic energy and demand entertainment. One serial killer, and make it fast. Shaken, not stirred. But this tense quiet was not the song of a joyous reunion, a return to normalcy; it was the sound a wound made as it was torn open after a long process of healing that left it sensitive and incomplete.

Sherlock swallowed hard. "There were snipers out that day," he said slowly. "Moriarty had three of them. One for you, one for Mrs. Hudson, and one for Lestrade . . ." He began recounting the events of that day, explaining how he had arranged with Molly to fake his death and why he'd had to jump to save John's life. At the end, he was near tears again. "I shouldn't have deceived you, but it was necessary. I never would have forgiven myself if you had . . ." He didn't need to finish it. "And you've every right to be angry with me. I hope you can find it within you to forgive me someday."

He regarded Sherlock with sad eyes. They were the eyes of a soldier, scarred by the burning lashes of war, but they were also the eyes of a friend filled with lonesome affection. "I was angry at first, I will admit. I was angry you had left me. I'd let you take the lead so many times and listened to what you told me, but you can't go where I can't follow and expect me to let you leave." He sighed softly. "When I'd gotten over the bitterness, I was crushed by a melancholic exhaustion. I missed you. And after that I was well and truly dead." John's eyes flicked to the skull resting on the bookshelf, at the photograph resting beside it before returning to Sherlock's face. "But you came back, Sherlock." A slight glow appeared in his face, the hidden light of triumph. "I understand now why you had to leave, and I'm not angry anymore. You came back and as much as I detested your absence I really couldn't hold it against you."

Sherlock was in shock. He'd accounted for a thousand ways this scenario could have played out. John could have broken down and cried. He could have fallen silent and refused to speak anymore. He could have kicked Sherlock out of the flat. He could have punched Sherlock in the nose. But here he was, being so kind and understanding. He had definitely not planned for this and now he didn't know what to do. He looked expectantly at John. "So what do we do now?" he asked, his voice hoarse as he struggled to keep tears from falling down his cheeks.

John's breath caught. "Stay. Stay?" His voice fell from firm to almost pleading in the space between the words and he cleared his throat. "This flat is too big for just me. The silence is too big for one person to fill." His finger clenched on the cup's handle. There were many things John would give to have the detective back in the flat, to pick up Lestrade's unsolvable cases and burst in with this dramatic man and stand by his side as he laid out every fact they'd missed. He'd look Anderson in the eye with pride, as if to say look what my friend can do. "You can go back to your work, and I can help if you so wish. Or you could just live here." Anything that meant he was no longer alone.

A ghost of a smile crossed Sherlock's face. "I'm not sure things will ever go back to the way they were, John," he said sadly. Then, not wanting to be misunderstood, he quickly added "But I'd very much like to start over and try again. If that's all right with you, of course."

"Yes. Of course." he nodded and took a sip of his tea, watching Sherlock over the rim of his cup. Always mysterious, always unreadable. John envied his partner's observational skills at times like this. Another swallow of warm sweetness surged down his throat. "I, uh... I left your room just as it was. No one's been in there for three years. I suppose it might be a bit musty but we can air it out." He didn't mention the first night he'd been in the flat after the fall; he'd spent it in Sherlock's room, his fists clenched in the bedsheets that held the ghost of his scent. There were tears that night, and the agonies of a rage burning inside of him, John would never voice the morning after when he'd wandered out and shut the door, blocking the space from his mind. Funny, how the mind chose to heal itself by hiding the sharp pains and hurts under mental plaster and tarps. It struggled to cover up the blood and the bodies, yet was still unnerved by the unconscious knowledge of the truth.

"Lovely." Sherlock replied, casting an idle glance around the flat. It was too clean; it bothered him how much the space reflected the emptiness that must have been in John's life during his absence. An emptiness he had torn out, and one he now hoped to fill. The detective's long, pale fingers tapped against the arm of his chair and he turned his eyes towards John, truly observing him for the first time.

There were new lines around his dark eyes, curling around his mouth, and crinkling his forehead. Not the lines of laughter, no. These were the reminders of stress. His shoulders were curving, bowing inward as if they held too much weight, and his left hand was trembling slightly; that tremor had returned. John's eyes looked haunted and were sitting above the shadows left on his face as the testament to nights spent without sleep. As a whole, he looked tired, drained, and colorless. Sherlock dropped his eyes from his friend, a biting guilt working it's way through his belly. He had hoped that John would move on and cope after his departure, but it seemed now that the doctor was in worse state than when he had found him.

The detective set his teacup aside and rose in a graceful, sinuous movement. "John," he said, his voice low.

"Yes?"

Sherlock crossed the space between them in two strides and took the cup gently but firmly from John's hands and set it on the desk to his right. He turned back to the doctor and grasped his arm, pulling him to his feet. Their eyes met for a brief instant, John's confused, Sherlock's anguished. He brought his friend into a close embrace and tucked his chin over John's shoulder, his lips pressing as he tried to quell the swelling emotion inside. Agony. Regret. Loneliness. They waged war on the detective's face as he buried it in John's jumper, inhaling the scent of his flatmate. A shudder coursed through him, followed by the soft sound of a choked sob.

"It's okay, Sherlock. I'm here."


	2. Resaturation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock explains what his side of the three years had been like and John ponders his theories of the fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll try to keep updating this as fast as I can hammer out chapters, or at least every Sunday. If anyopne is willing to be a beta reader or wants just let me shoot plot ideas, send me a message. I'm on tumblr under the same username.

They stood together for a longer time than that of a normal embrace, the force of Sherlock's grief shaking them both. John hadn't seen the detective this emotional in the months he had known him; the only thing that came close was during their last conversation, and that was a much more internal pain. Yet he knew that Sherlock was human, and people need comfort, so he kept his arms around him until at last the cries of quiet hurt began to subside. Sherlock murmured something into John's shoulder, his voice audibly cracking despite how muffled it was. "What?" "I said of course I'll stay." the detective replied, pulling away from John to look him in the face. His eyes flicked about with agitation. "We don't even have to touch my room tonight; there will be time for that later. I'll do it tomorrow."

"Are you sure?" John asked, his gaze holding Sherlock's.

"Yes. I know these three years have been hard on you John, but there were rough for me too. I think tonight I'd just like to spend my time sitting here with you, just talking. If that's alright, of course?" Sherlock paused, cocking his head slightly before continuing. "It was easier when I had things to do; I tracked down and disposed of everyone in Moriarty's network. I couldn't have then going after you or Mrs. Hudson. The task also helped me escape my life here, as it reminded me of the work I did as a child. I've been solving cases since I was ten, you know. But really, it was only a temporary fix, and a shoddy one at that." His voice dropped. "I still felt your absence. I missed you."

He released John and spun around suddenly, moving to one of the bookcases. He held up a manila folder that had been tucked between two books. "Why did you put this here? Nevermind." He waves his free hand dismissively and set the folder aside before turning to the window and pulling back the curtain with one finger. John settled into his chair.

"All of Moriarty's criminals were either dead or jailed within the first few months. I thought about dragging it out and saving myself some of the hurt, but that meant you were unprotected, and the thought of leaving you at their mercy made me feel incredibly guilty."

A gentle rain was beginning to fall on Baker Street, the yellow streetlights reflected on the wet pavement, the fat drops catching the light as they fell. The few cars parked at the curb were glittering with beaded moisture and streaks of rain were beginning to slide down the glass pane. It was a beautiful scene, and one that held the air of softness and newness. Refreshing, really.

"John, John. Dear John." The detective mused as he flicked the curtains shut again and moved back to his chair. Sherlock picked up his cup and cradled it in his thin hands before bringing it to his lips. He took a swallow and gazed at the wall opposite him thoughtfully. "My dear John," said the well-remembered voice, "I owe you a thousand apologies. I had no idea that you would be so affected."

Well, this was more like the Sherlock he remembered, full of a boundless manic energy, though perhaps not exactly the same. Getting there, though. It was odd to see him this sorrowfully quiet and emotional, so obviously hiding the flayed wound beneath his cool exterior. How ragged were the edges that it left such shadows beneath his eyes and drew his thin frame to a new level of gaunt? He looked like a man who was haunted. Sherlock had torn at the seems and had tried to sew himself back together and don the iron armor he'd so carefully placed around his heart, but he hadn't managed to do it right and he remained a bit cracked on the edges, pain oozing through the gaps of his mask.

"I saw you at my grave, you know."

"Did you?" John replied, a slight feeling of annoyance rising in his chest. "You could have said something. I think it would have saved us both a lot of trouble."

The detective shook his head, his dark curls bouncing. "I couldn't risk it. Just being there was dangerous enough." He strummed his fingers against his thigh and raised his glass again.

"Then why'd you even come?"

"I had to see that you were alright. There was a chance that one of the shooters knew I was alive, or had gotten a little... trigger happy."

"Oh." So it had been gunman. He'd wondered often about why Sherlock had jumped; an actual suicide didn't make sense, and John had dismissed the idea immediately. Sherlock wasn't a fake, no- he had proof.

The day they'd met, the detective had seemingly known everything about him from his limp, his appearance, and the case of his mobile phone. John knew he hadn't been researched; his return to London hadn't been published, nor had his therapist been listed anywhere in relation to him online. Mike could have told Sherlock about him, but he didn't know about the therapist either. And then, of course, there was Sherlock's mistake. Assuming Harry was his brother made it so obvious that Sherlock hadn't looked him up or talked to Mike. Mike knew Harriet, and she was listed in his relations on the web somewhere, he was sure. It was that one little slip that have credit to every other truth.

Knowing that left a thousand other circumstances regarding the fall open for consideration. The stress of Moriarty could have driven him mad. It would have explained the rushed tones, the uncharacteristic flood of emotion towards the end, but John had trouble believing that. Sherlock was the strongest intellectual he knew; he wouldn't break that easily. And he couldn't believe that he was in league with Moriarty, not after the scene at the pool.

The detective's sonorous baritone interrupted his reverie. "Hmm?"

"I said," Sherlock began, an growing edge in his voice. "When did you return to the flat? I know you were gone for several weeks."

"A month or so after you... died. I came back, returned to the surgery. Mrs. Hudson never seemed to mind that I didn't quite make the rent all the time. Sher didn't really bother me about anything." John chuckled sadly. "I must admit I became a bit of a recluse."

"Why?"

John turned sharply towards the detective, an incredulous look in his dark eyes. "Sherlock, I thought you were dead." He glanced away, the hurt on his face flickering out to be replaced by a shield of feigned indifference as his voice dropped. " I had a lot of difficulty adjusting to life without you. You're quite a character, Sherlock." He laughed again, a short, almost painful sound that made Sherlock grimace. "Quite exciting. Without you, I became... bored." John's mouth quirked up into a half smile. "You know, for a while I thought I'd gone mad. I'd hear footsteps in the flat at night, strains of the violin; eventually I realized it was just me, missing you, trying to project my memories into the world so you could live and breathe again. I was breathing for us both in my mind. Sometimes it was easier to not breathe at all."

Sherlock frowned and returned to his chair, but kept unusually quiet. Disapproval radiated from his figure as he stiffened; his pale fingers turned to arching claws on the arms of his seat and his glacial eyes flashed.

"So... What happened on the roof?"

"There's a short answer, and one much more verbose." Sherlock replied coolly.

"Take your pick."

"Moriarty met me on the roof, shot himself, and left me with a problem I'd already solved."

The doctor sighed and took a sip of his tea. Ugh. Cold. "Please, what actually happened?"

"That's it," he growled is response, his mouth twitching with annoyance. He shut his icy eyes.

"That's _it?_ No, that's a load of shit and you know it." John fired back. "I'll tell you anything and everything you haven't already figured out for yourself about my life without you, but you've left me in the dark long enough. At least grant me that much." Here is was, the rising anger, the betrayed hurt. John's left hand clenched.

This wasn't right, this wasn't how he wanted to do this at all. There was hurt here, yes, but he wanted to have Sherlock back in his life- this could scare him away. The detective already seemed to have some new found insecurity, some thought that he didn't belong, and John couldn't... he couldn't leave again. It will kill him. 

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open. "Moriarty had me pick a location for our grand finale," he began as his eyes drifted shut again. The detective laid his head back, his pale neck bent at an impossible angle. "The roof fit both our purposes."

John raised an eyebrow.

"He arrived first, and bothered me until I came to meet him. He seemed quite pleased when I showed up. He'd won. In his mind he was already seeing the headlines announcing my suicide. I feigned ignorance as he explained his plot." He sighed.

As his pause stretched longer than necessary, John brought Sherlock out of his memories. "Which was?"

"He had snipers around the area, ordered to fire unless one of two things happened. If I died, they would retreat, as they would if Moriarty gave a certain signal."

"And who would they shoot?" John asked softly. He could already guess.

"Three bullets. Three gunmen. Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade. _You._ " The reply came equally quiet.

Sherlock's voice returned to a normal volume as he continued, a humorless smile forming on his lips. "Of course, he removed the option of a peaceful resolution by putting a bullet through his mouth."

"He didn't even see you fall?"

That was odd. Surely Moriarty knew of Sherlock's power; why hadn't he seen his plan through?

"Our consulting criminal was releasing the contents of his skull on the roof even before I called you." Sherlock chuckled.

John nodded, then cast another dark glance at the detective. "And why did you call me?"

"I..." Sherlock seemed at a loss for words. "I needed a moment. I had already plotted everything, guessed every way it could play out, but I wasn't prepared for you, John. You've been my wild card and the ace up my sleeve in so many situations, and I sometimes don't correctly predict how you'll react. When I called you, I was leaving a note as I had planned to make my death more authentic, but I was also checking in on my friend. Every piece was in place. I just needed to hear your voice.

"After I hunted down Moriarty's men, I retreated to a nocturnal life of solitude. I couldn't really pick up real cases, not when everyone was supposed to think I was dead. I couldn't risk acquiring fame again."

It must have been hard for one so wild and in need of stimuli to sink into a reclusive life. John sighed softly. "I'm sorry, Sherlock."

The detective opened his eyes and frowned at the ceiling. "It's not your fault in the least, John. It was mine. It was my ego that drew him in. I pulled on the threads of his web. Not you."

"Still." His voice was firm. "I'm sorry It came to this. I'm sorry..."

Sherlock lifted his head and looked at John with concern. "John? Oh. You're exhausted, aren't you? I suppose my return is a stressful affair."

The doctor rubbed his face with his hands, a look of regret passing his features. "I'm not so sure you'll be here when I wake up."

"I will be."

"Promise?"

"Yeah."

* * *

 

John went to his too-neat bed in his too-neat room and pulled out a set of sleep wear before undressing. He slid into his bed with a soft noise of release and the long, tired pain of the soul. It was a rough sound, yet still gentle and quiet. It was many hours before he finally slipped to sleep.

* * *

Sherlock sat for just as long in his chair, sipping the dregs of cold tea. Rest was useless, unneeded. It had always been something not for him. His impossible eyes bore into a clock half hidden in the bookcase to his side, watching the hands slide around without his tracking, and so the two men who once called each other colleagues and flatmates, and eventually best friends spent their first night together in three years alone, sad, and sleepless.

Idly, Sherlock set his hand to rest on the table to his right, thin fingers brushing along a coaster.

He frowned and picked it up, turning the wooden face to catch the light. There was a carving in it, one he didn't recall being there before. It was very light, perhaps accidental.

_I believe in Sherlock Holmes._

* * *

It was just past seven when John decided to brave the flat after a sleepless night and an early morning of what could only honestly be labeled as hiding. He dressed quickly, mindful of the chilly February weather as he selected a creamy jumper. The temperature had resolutely remained only a handful of degrees above freezing in January, and was just now warming from a painful cold to hang around ten or twelve degrees Celsius, so his wardrobe had been just as regular; pretending to care about which lumpy sweater to wear that day was just another part of the doctor's morning routine. This morning, however, was different. He wasn't dressing for himself today, or even the people at the surgery. No, he was dressing for the man sitting somewhere in the flat, no doubt typing away at his computer or lost in his own head.

_Mind palace._

"Yes, Sherlock..." John sighed. Memories liked to bump into his mind, little snippets of those deep, rolling tones or flashes of crime scenes. They lent a second voice to his thoughts, a conversational counterpart. Was he more mad for talking to himself, expecting a response, or for when the answer actually came?

It had become reflexive to listen to the playbacks of the detective. He'd studied them more than any scholar with a library of books, more religiously than a priest his scriptures or an author her own works. He'd become a student to the man, the one who would watch him with those unnatural eyes, noting each little detail and deducing his history by his buttons or the crease at his collar. It was intimidating, to say the least, to know and live with someone in possession of such a vast intellect. In some ways Sherlock reminded him of a dragon; languorous, godlike, laying on a mountain of power. John had listened to his memories of the man and taught himself to see, if only a little, in the way Sherlock had viewed the world.

He stepped out of his room.

  
Sherlock was sitting in the living room, his elbows resting on his knees, fingers steepled and pressed against his lips. Before him on the table were several objects that had been laying about the flat; a coaster, a photograph, and fragments of newspaper clippings arranged, John realized as he moved closer, chronologically. The detective stared at the arrangement thoughtfully.

"You were wearing that when we met." Sherlock said, his eyes brushing across the table to trace John's shoulder, dripping down his torso before flicking up to his tired face.

Hell, he'd forgotten. "Was I?"

"Yes, and you look even worse than last night. You didn't sleep," he replied, refocusing on the table.

"I did, a bit." John sat in the chair opposite him and made a small gesture at the table. "What's all this?"

"I would ask you," Sherlock said, pinching the photograph with two fingers and flipping it over to show a line of text written on the back. The letters had been penned in so many times the text was indented through the paper. "'I believe in Sherlock Holmes'?" He raised an eyebrow and brushed his thumb over the ridges leaving a smear of blue-black ink.

"Oh. Erm."

"It's the same on all of these-" Sherlock waved a hand at the newspapers as he set the photo face down. The words glared up at the ceiling, sharp and unapologetic. "It's also here, carved into the wood, and on the final entry of your blog."

John's gaze went from the papers to the coaster and he frowned. "It was just something I wrote. I did it a lot after you were gone."

He could all but see the gears spinning in Sherlock's mind as his eyes flicked from the papers to the photograph to the coaster, then to John's face and back. He wet his lips and John knew he was preparing to lay out a deduction; he'd seen this expression countless times before.

"This is not just a line of words, John." he began, a familiar underlying tone tinting his voice. It was the sound of confidence. "This is a phrase written and rewritten on a photograph until the pressure of the pen digs into the wood below. It's scrawled on these newspapers, denying every headline. Copied until it became a mantra, a prayer." Sherlock looked up and met John's eyes. "Who were you trying to convince: me, or yourself?"

"Neither." John countered softly. "I just wrote it. It was in my head, so I wrote it."

"Hmm. Possible."

John rolled his eyes. "If you're done with that, we've got actual real world stuff to attend to." John stood and moved to the doorway to the kitchen, one hand resting on the frame as he paused for Sherlock's response.

The detective rolled his eyes. "Like?"

"Well, I'm assuming that Mycroft thinks you're dead, and your mother too. And Mrs. Hudson needs to know you're alive. I don't care if you want to keep it a secret from everyone else, but she needs to know." he replied, sighing. "I'm guessing you had someone in on the secret when you fell. Who was it?"

"Molly," came the distant reply.

"Ah. I should have guessed, I suppose. She didn't seem very upset at your funeral, and I'd thought her to be emotional." John entered the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. It was sterile, not just in cleanliness but also in content; John didn't keep much in the fridge. A white styrofoam carton of eggs sat next to a quart of milk in opaque plastic, which was on the shelf above a package of raw chicken shaded a dull pink. Celery, a dead green, pasta in a creamy sauce left over from Tuesday, half of a pale onion. Bland, really. There were no jar of clouded fluid or questionable plastic bags to be found, no severed hands next to the cream.

Breakfast. An easy task that kept the hands busy but also engaged the mind enough to keep unwanted thoughts away. John had collected such activities over the long months, carefully finding ways to numb himself.

So, breakfast. Eggs, milk, parsley, green onion, salt. John pulled a skillet onto the stove and placed a silver bowl on the counter next to the eggs he'd taken from the fridge. There was a cutting board in the corner, which he slid by the sink.

"Sherlock, breakfast. Do you want any?" he called as he pulled apart onions from the banded bundle and turned on the tap to rinse them. There was a noise from the living room that he took as affirmation. John sliced the crisp stalks into neat little wheels and piled them in the center of the board before turning to the eggs and cracking five into the bowl.

His movements were sharp, controlled, and deliberate, and he worked with the regulation of a well oiled machine, grinding away rhythmically like a windup clockwork toy. Eggs mixed, poured, steam rising from the hot pan as pleasant aromas curled up and circled through the kitchen. John stood before the stove with his arms crossed, watching the skillet.

There was a prickle at his shoulder, that I'm-being-watched tension.

"John."

He jumped at the close proximity of the voice. "Dammit, personal space!" he turned around to face the detective and frowned.

"You're unhappy. Deeply unhappy. Should I not have returned?" Sherlock asked, his eyes searching John's with a anxious intensity. His thin hands gripped the doctor's shoulders, his thumb just over the soft wound on his left. John's muscles twitched slightly at the contact but he returned the gaze with an open earnest look.

"I need you here. In this flat. In my life. Sherlock, I thought you knew that. I..." he trailed off, shaking his head slightly. "I guess things are weird right now, but we'll get better, right?"

His friend's expression seemed to tighten as sorrow flit across his face. Guilt, too. "I can see it in your face, John. You look harrowed. No doubt you haven't been seeing your therapist; she'd say you're depressed. She'd be right, too. The post traumatic stress is worse, accompanied by insomnia and a possible blunted affect. Your mind tried to cope by shutting down and forcing you into an apathetic state."

John glanced away, looking down and to the side as he avoided the inquisitive eyes before him. "I'm fine, Sherlock. Honestly. Just give me some time, okay?"

As quickly as the detective had approached him, he spun away and paced to the circular table. "Where's my microscope?"

"Basement."

"Hmm."

He pulled the pan from the stove and turned off the burner, and turned to find Sherlock taking two plates down from the rack above the counter. It was uncanny, the detective's ability to move about the flat so silently, although his help was not unwanted this morning. They moved with an easy grace together; John scraped a portion of eggs on each plate as they were held out to him, then he sprinkled salt and pepper over the top and reached into the bag of shredded cheese that was offered. Sherlock brought their meal to the table and John carried silverware, laying out forks for them both as the plates were set in their places.

"Thank you," John began as he eased into a chair. He picked up his fork and took a chunk of yellow from the pile, watching the strings of gooey cheese lengthen as he pulled the fork away.

Sherlock nodded as he toyed with his serving.

John took a few bites and pondered his food thoughtfully for a few moments. "We really do need to tell your family you're alive, Sherlock. And Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson."

"Fine."

There was a brief silence, broken only by the quiet scraping of forks.

"Okay. So, I'll, um," John pulled his phone from his pocket and thumbed through the contacts. He didn't have very many.

_Mycroft, Sherlock returned to the flat last night. He's alive, and wanted to let you know he's okay. -JW_

A reply came minutes later.

_On my way. M_


	3. Brotherhood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft comes to visit.

“I take it he’s coming to the flat,” Sherlock murmured as he took a careful bite, eying the plate before him.

“Yes,” John nodded. “And tomorrow we’ll tell Lestrade, and when Mrs Hudson comes home we’ll tell her.” He stood and brought his plate to the sink. Sherlock followed him as he moved to the living room and pulled back the curtain. A flood of white-blue light entered the room and he blinked. At some point during the wee hours of the morning, the light rain had turned into snow and left the street dusted with fine powdery crystals. The thin covering would probably be gone by noon, but the lattices of ice and swirled piles on the posts and streetlights made for a pretty scene.

Down below a car was pulling in at the curb next to other vehicles dressed in white. Well. That was fast.

John twitched the drapes shut again. “Your brother’s here.”

A noise of petulant disapproval was the only reply as the detective sank into his favorite chair and pulled his violin into his lap.

“Sherlock, he’s coming up.” John stated flatly. He honestly wished that they would both behave today; he'd seen Mycroft at Sherlock's funeral. There had been a very deep pain in the man's face, a hurt so deep it bowed his shoulders and curved his back under the weight as he led his mother to the grave of his younger brother. John flashed back to the graveside service breifly, recalling the small group of huddled mourners, the icy wind pulling at his clothes as he watched the Holmeses lead the way to the dark casket. Mycroft had shared a glance with him when he had reached the would that held his friend Sherlock, and in that moment John had understood something very important about the man. However often they fought, however angry they had seemed together, Mycroft had cared deeply about his brother and felt the ripping pains of failure. That was the bond of brotherhood; the eldest was expected to protect the children that came after, and Mycroft had believed protecting Sherlock to be his job, and that a job which he'd neglected.

Even as he spoke there came the sound of their door opening and firm, authoritative footsteps on the stairs. Of course Mycroft wouldn’t knock—this was the older brother of Sherlock Holmes, the cunning, powerful government official, the man born into a life of respect and luxury. He probably never knocked on the few doors that weren’t held open to him.

The tidy man appeared in the doorway moments later dressed neatly in a dark suit. Flecks of water hit the floor as the ice on his shoes melted. He paused, brushing one hand along the opposite sleeve as if to steady himself.

Sherlock glanced at Mycroft and drew himself inward, shrinking slightly in his chair and glowering as if waiting for a scolding.

“So, you’ve been alive all this time?” Mycroft asked, leveling his brother with an appraising look.

The detective fingered a chord and scraped out a nasty minor with a grimace. When he spoke, his voice was a slow growl. “How’s the diet?” Low, drawn out. Almost menacing. His head dropped as he focused on the instrument resting on his knees, his shoulders tensed and bowed in a pose that said to back off. Mycroft ignored his body language and took a step into the room.

“Three years, Sherlock. You waited three years.”

“What do you think of the snow? Quite lovely, isn’t it?” Sherlock flicked his bow along the strings again, and John winced at the sound.

Mycroft crossed the room in three quick strides and towered over the detective, his close proximity demanding his brother’s attention. “Don’t be a child. Look at you, so selfish! Do you have any thought, any inkling of an idea of what you did to me, to _John?_ ” He flung one arm out in a violent gesture towards where the doctor stood by the window. “Not to mention our mother. She was heartbroken.”

Sherlock crossed and then uncrossed his arms before shoving his violin to the side. He rose from his seat to stand toe to toe with his brother. “I had to disappear, if you’ll recall, because of your carelessness. You and your mouth, your eagerness to crack the criminal, your insistence on breaking Moriarty—I could have told you in a second he wouldn’t yield to you, and yet you refused to recognize that simple fact. You’re the child, Mycroft. So used to getting your way and being the big bully that you couldn’t let him slip through. That’s the cause of this.”

They glowered at each other, and John fidgeted. The tension in the air made him nervous. Uncomfortable. “Sherlock, Mycroft, please-“

Mycroft ignored him and kept his gaze on his brother. His response was short, clipped, a refusal. “You can’t blame me for what happened. You made your choices, and I made mine; I was acting with the good of our country in mind-“

“Oh, don’t pull that with me when you know I know better.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It was your pride.” he spat.

“Boys,” John began, moving slightly towards the two. _Don't fight, don't fight, don't fight, too late._

“Moriarty was a dangerous criminal and I had to learn everything I could from him.” Mycroft returned to his brother, his eyes narrowing.

It would have been nice to have had this reunion go less violently, but John supposed he’d never really seen the Holmes brothers at anything but each other’s throats. Nothing seemed to rile Sherlock up like his brother, except perhaps Anderson.

The elder brother’s sharp voice came again. “You brat, you at least owe me an explanation, an apology. And dear God, what your death did to John. He was a mess. It was frightening, Sherlock.”

John frowned. “Hey, I’m right here,” He was ignored again. Well, these were such lovely conversations, weren’t they; pinned by intellectuals, completely overlooked. He had them far too often with Sherlock, so he turned and went back to the kitchen, and as he pulled a kettle onto the counter and filled it they continued.

Mycroft’s angry tones dropped to a cutting whisper. “I don’t believe that your death was my fault, but if it was then you are still responsible for what came after. You could have returned to him sooner, but instead you hid and you haunted him. Your only friend, Sherlock.” He shook his head.

There was a pause and John shifted his weight from foot to foot and set the water to boil. Finally, the detective responded in a strangely ragged voice.

“Mycroft, I was afraid.”

“Of what? Of John? Of me?” Mycroft asked, incredulous.

“That I’d done too much damage to him, to everyone.”

The doctor returned to the living room as the tension eased away to be replaced by a jaggedness that the three of them seemed to shrink away from. The individual hurts were piling up. Anger drained to quiet grief. The scene had changed; Sherlock curling in on himself again with his head bowed, Mycroft pressing his lips firmly together with his arms crossed.

There was another break before Mycroft replied.

“We would have welcomed you back. Your absence was hard on everyone here.”

Sherlock lifted his head and stared past his brother with unfocused eyes. “Did you mourn?” he asked softly.

“We all did.” There was a heavy note of finality in John’s voice as he fixed a hard gaze at his flatmate. “Everyone mourned. You may not realize it, but Molly, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson—even Mycroft and me—we cared We still care. As much as you may have wished otherwise, as much as you believed you were alone, we cared for you.”

The detective met his eyes and, swallowing, nodded once.

Mycroft glanced over his shoulder at John before returning to his brother. One hand reached out, both firm and tentative, and rested on Sherlock’s thin shoulder as he pulled the detective slightly closer. “We missed you, Sherlock.”

A shrill whistle began from the kitchen and John turned back and ducked through the doorway. Just as he left, he caught a glimpse of Mycroft embracing his brother, of Sherlock’s unsure arms returning the gesture, and of the quiet pain in the icy blue eyes that followed him as he departed.

* * *

Mycroft ended up staying for a few hours and they shared a light brunch before he departed to conduct his business affairs, and though the brothers were mostly silent through their meal when he finally bid his farewell John decided that it had been a decent visit. The rest of the morning passed at the pace of a glacier as a quiet awkwardness settled into the flat like unwanted dust in an unused storeroom. Sherlock settled back into his chair and idly let his figures play over the strings of his violin as he sat with a frozen thoughtful expression. His melodies were uncharacteristically slower and more obliged to a rhythmic drudgery, pulsing as if each beat, each note was measured to that of a pendulum. Marching. The detective kept up these programmed songs for several hours after his brother left with a pensive and withdrawn air as John putted about the flat and tried both to dispel the uncomfortable tension and to keep out of his way.

They were interesting, the Holmes brothers; John supposed that they shared a very strange bond indeed, for it seemed that Sherlock had taken a comfort in his brother's company despite their constant differences, perhaps a comfort that he would never find in John. Mycroft was all it took to rile him up and yet that morning he had been the one to breach the anger and confusion and bring the great detective to his emotional knees, and then had wrapped him up again with quiet affection.

Then again, there was the strangeness of the night previous. He'd attributed the surreal atmosphere to his turmoil over Sherlock's return, but what really stuck out to him was the soft sadness that blanketed the man. He'd seemed so nostalgic, so longing, and he'd treated John with a rather delicate care as if he was holding him at arms length for fear of breaking him.

_I'm not fragile. I'm a soldier._

Did that really apply anymore? Had the man he'd become over the last three years acted as a man of the military? Or had the John Watson he'd become in the company of Sherlock react as he would have before the detective?

War changes men. That he knew. And he'd been told by the eldest man of the Holmes family himself that Sherlock surrounded himself in a battlefield behind the everyday lines of life. Skirmishes in the sewers, plots of deceit and treachery in uptight boardrooms, men in expensive suits who worked in cubicles by day turned into monsters when the sun went down, and they were all reveled by the famed detective. John had seen that firsthand at the side of Sherlock, but he had never realized the extent that he'd been molded by the detective and his war. He's been cut and carved away into a new creature, one born into the world unlocked by that massive intellect.

War, in the classic sense and previously in the mind of John Watson, wasn't a thing of subtleties and logical puzzles or in the dealings between charismatic people. Perhaps it was to his superiors, but he was just another body in the grand scheme of things and knew it to be more a mash of quick thinking and instinct. Hence the planes of Sherlock's war had changed him differently than his time in Afghanistan had. One's effect was brutally in his face with recollections of gunpowder, artillery shells, and the scent of blood in covered tents where there was no escaping the groans of men who would never see England again. That was a place of the constant fear that today was the day. The other was more subliminal, and though it was just as real at times it had the feel of an alternate life. He could put it aside for the surgery, for time with a girlfriend, for a letter to Harriet.

But of course that wasn't true.

Cases left him sleep deprived at the surgery, and though he was honest and good intentioned towards his dates often he had to put everything aside for the detective. More than once a girl accused him of putting Sherlock before her, and he often could supply no argument against that; he was as married to his flatmate as much as his flatmate was married to his work even if he didn't realize it. Sherlock was his closest friend in the world.

It had been a bullet that sent him from the front lines and to a never ending stream of doctors and therapists and the smell of chemicals that had been so familiar from his days as a medical student. Nightmares. Pitying looks. They never left him. That bullet had taught him that war wasn't just something he could peel away from his life. John could pretend not to be bothered, but he was always rattled. All the plastic and tape covering the scars, trying to hide the blood and the bodies so no one would ever know, but he remembered what happened no matter how deeply he tried to bury it. From a stranger's point of view, John Watson's mind was a clean and straightforward place, uncluttered and friendly. Of course he knew better. He lived there.

It had been a man, just one man with the help of a phone call and months of bonding to make John realize that Sherlock's war was just as real as anything else in his world. It wasn't part of a second life that he could put on hold to hear the tinkling elevator music of reality. The soundtrack of the detective's voice explaining that _no, it wasn't a suicide, he was obviously left handed_ was just as important.

One could argue that it was the stress of this war and the horrible trauma of the fall that had left John so battered, that he'd resorted to apathy after months of a dying hope in his war hero, that his mantra was little more than a comfort that he was not wrong in following the man.

John Watson was a soldier, that much was true. But Sherlock Holmes was more than a fellow army man or even a commanding officer; he was John's closest friend. Above all else, it was not the loss of the fight that haunted him, it was the red red blood on the pale face, streaking over the sharp cheekbones and around the eyes, once so bright and full of energy, now dull and dim.

* * *

 The clock's hands were just shy of one in the afternoon when John made himself a late lunch. He was unsurprised when Sherlock declined food, being used to the detective's strange appetites and their long and sometimes heated arguments about the necessary amounts of nutrients and sleep a human should get- and an unconscious part of him was becoming relieved at the aching familiarity.

The rest awkwardly waited for the return of Mrs Hudson; he felt it unreasonable that she be kept in the dark though he felt lucky that Sherlock had returned while she was visiting a friend. It gave John time to settle and spend a night alone with the detective without her well-meant botherings. At the same time, he felt awful. During the months of Sherlock's absence, he'd become so withdrawn that they'd barely spoken; she went about the flat when he was out, tidying and leaving homemade food in the refrigerator. In retrospect, her action were so sweet and motherly it made his heart pulse with sentimentality, but at the time it had been just an intrusion of his personal space. When they'd run into each other face to face in the flat and every so often in town, he would give her a curt nod or a brief hello, and she would just stare at him with sad, sympathetic eyes. John felt he had much to make up to her, and rightly so.

His opportunity came early that evening when Mrs Hudson arrived at Baker Street. She was quiet, as usual, as she entered her flat, but John could hear the rustle of her pea coat and the thump of her overnight bag on the floor. He hurried to the stair and took them two at a time.

"Oh, John, dear, how are you today?" She turned to him, a cheery, mothering smile plastered to her face and a sugar sweet tone in her voice. Her eyes touched his ever so lightly and then slide past to hover over his shoulder and he felt a pang. It must have been painful for her to try to live with someone so distant and fragile.

"Good. I'm good. I, uh, have something to show you. Someone." John replied as he gestured to the stairs.

Her eyes returned to his face with surprise and interest. "Who?"

"Come on."

Together they took the stairs and when they reached Sherlock in his chair on the landing Mrs Hudson let out a shriek and ran to the detective as he stood. He opened his arms and caught her as she threw hers around him, the force of her body sending him back a half step for balance as they embraced. He grinned.

"Sherlock, how I've missed you." She pulled away and made a stern face. "I don't even want to know where you've been, but you've got to promise me you'll never do it again."

"I'll do my best." Sherlock sighed, the smile slipping from his face.

She nodded and folded her hands together. "It'll be supper time in an hour or so. Shall I make you two dinner? Just this once though, dears."

"Not tonight, thank you." Sherlock shook his head slightly and absentmindedly adjusting the collar of his greatcoat. "You've just come back from Nancy's so I'm sure you're tired, and I was rather hoping I could spend the evening catching up with John at one of the local diners." He raised an eyebrow at John's surprised expression and then turned to Mrs Hudson again. Sherlock pecked her cheek once and then swooped to the door. With a quick tilt of his head he motioned John to the stairs and then took them two at a time. The doctor muttered a quick apology to their landlady and hurried after him.

"Wasn't that a bit rude? She'd only just seen you." John asked as they stepped out onto the curb. "And how'd you know it was Nancy's?"

Sherlock waved away the first bit and held a hand up as one of London's infamous black cabs approached them. "You don't know Mrs Hudson as I, John. She'll be fine." he popped open the door and swung himself inside the car. "As for Nancy, I could tell by the thud of her bag hitting the floor that it was small, an overnight bag for exactly that; one night. Maybe two, as Mrs Hudson is reserved with clothing when it comes to traveling to see her close friends. As for the friends themselves, she only has a few living reasonably close enough to warrant travel over the weekend with an overnight bag. There's also her jewelry; inexpensive, and more tasteful than the flashy pieces she wears for her callers. She wasn't heading for one of her male friends wearing jewels meant to impress, so it was a woman. Lastly, the dress. Simple, and just so slightly smudged with dirt about the cuff." John blinked as he slid into the cab next to the detective and shut the door. "So, Nancy, a lovely elderly woman who lives an hour out of Windsor and maintains a fairly large garden."

"That's... brilliant." John said after a pause. Sherlock laughed and called an address to the cabbie. It was a real, genuine laugh, and the first he'd heard since the detective's return and John couldn't help but join in as the cab pulled away from the curb.

"It's good to be back." His partner replied.


	4. Psychology in the Diner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock diagnoses John.

John watched the street flow past them through the smudged windows of the cab before turning to the detective. He looked relaxed with one hand curled around his knee, the other resting on the seat next to him, long legs folded up and his back gently sloping against his seat. Calm, happy even.

"Well, now that you've got me out here, what do you want?" he asked. Sherlock grinned.

"Nothing at all." The detective answered cheerily. "Just wanted to spend the evening with you."

"What if I had plans?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Of course you don't have plans, you don't even leave the flat to visit your sister. From what I've heard you've been all but catatonic for three years." He made a face and Sherlock quickly backpedaled. "Sorry, poor choice of words-"

"It's alright; there's no good way to say it." John sighed and returned to gazing out of the window. A woman was pushing a stroller, cellphone in hand, while a man set a paper bag on his doorstep while he fumbled for his keys. A dog watched passerby form a second story window. He wondered how many of the people he shuffled around with every day entertained deviant fantasies. How many came home from nine-to-five corporate jobs, hung up their coats, and stepped out again to pursue very different pastimes? A question popped into his mind, one that came often when he was working cases with Sherlock: would he recognize any of the people they hunted? The detective was a light that shined on the unseen things of the streets. Would the day come when he would reveal a killer to be someone they knew? Moriarty was the closest thing they'd had.

"No, really. It's not and I'm sorry." Sherlock began quickly, but he was cut off again as John held up on hand.

"We can't keep having this conversation. It's okay. I understand why you had to die."

"It's not that." The detective waved his fingers dismissively. "That's fine, of course I had to disappear. It's that I never came back."

John frowned. "And why was that exactly? Why didn't you come back? You'd have gone on happily without me, wouldn't you? Moriarty's connections couldn't have taken that long."

Now they were farther into the downtown streets, a place full of coaches with touring foreigners looking for the London Eye or the Globe Theater. They flashed past one of the silver dragon statues guarding the London area and a long row of street venders selling various craft.

"No no, of course not!" Sherlock cried.

"Well you did just fine before me, didn't you?"

The detective opened his mouth to respond but was cut off as the cab jostled him, braking heavily. Sherlock passed a few banknotes to the driver and John stepped out as he waited for the change. When he had pocketed the handful of pounds Sherlock climbed onto the curb and the black cab peeled back into the steady flow of nondescript vehicles.

* * *

The restaurant was small, but warmly lit. Gentle golden light spilled from the wide front window onto the alley adjacent. It was a quieter part of town, tucked away from the busier streets and it had underlying feel of homeyness. Sherlock pulled open its glass door and they walked inside.

It was warm and the scent of Italy curled about the room. John counted a dozen or so tables as he veered towards the solitary booth in open to the glass front and took the seat facing the wall. He'd become very accustomed to sitting that way, his back to the door, even in the detective's absence, though it was the detective who originally caused him to start gravitating to that area in restaurants. Sherlock watched people, always the careful and critical observer wherever they went; he preferred windowed tables where he could look out onto the street, and he liked to face the door. John had picked it up quickly and even after his death had taken the seat opposite.

As Sherlock settled in, John gave the room another cursory sweep over his shoulder. Of the tables lined up in the room, only two were filled. In the back corner, an excited man with a bow tie laughed with a redheaded woman and another man who was her boyfriend if their body language was anything to go by. The other, a table pressed against the floor to ceiling shelves of wine and packaged pasta to his back, was occupied by a male-model type in a scuffed leather jacket sitting across from a scruffy man in a tan trench coat who listened to his cheerful storytelling with his head cocked slightly to the side. A happy green sign on the back wall, affixed next to a scenic painting of Venice, proclaimed that the pasta was handmade and could be purchased for £10\. The bar sharing the wall with Sherlock's side of the booth was empty, but he supposed that this was more because of their early hour rather than a reflection of the restaurant's quality. Most people would begin searching for meals in an hour or so.

A waiter came through the swinging doors at the bar's far corner and bustled out with a plate of steaming food balanced on his left arm, renewing smells of tomato and red pepper in the room as he set his load in front of the model, who thanked him in a gruff voice before turning back to his companion and asking him something. Trench shook his head and the model sighed as it was a common argument as he tucked into his dinner.

The waiter approached their booth and called out a friendly greeting, his voice slightly accented. He swiped a pair of laminated menus from a stack on the bar and placed them on their table. "Hello! My name is Rob, and I'll be your server tonight. Can I get you two anything to drink? The bar opens in fifteen minutes but I can get you something now." he informed them.

Sherlock glanced at John, who shook his head slightly, and replied "I'll take a coke, nothing for my friend."

The waiter pulled a small pad of paper from his apron and penned the order in. "Are you sure?" he asked hesitantly. "We've got a special discount. I could mix you a Cuba Libre-"

"Fine. I'd like one, virgin and without the lime." the detective replied snarkily, his eyes flicking up to Rob's with a scathingly judgmental gleam.

The man paused. "But- that's just coke."

"Precisely."

John tapped his hand once on the table softly as he turned to the waiter. "Sorry, he doesn't do alcohol. Please, just the coke."

Rob nodded and moved to the bar, reaching around the high counter to fill a glass with dark, bubbling liquid which he set on the table before Sherlock. As he returned to the kitchen, John leaned over. "You can't harass our server, Sherlock. He's the one who touches our food." he chided.

The detective took a sip of his drink and made a face. "It's diet. I hate diet."

John sighed. "You're lucky he gave you just diet. He could have spit in it." He looked down at his menu and flipped it open, slowly thumbing through the pages before settling on an option. "Are you getting anything?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Yes, you are." He slid the menu across the table and tapped something with his index finger. "You didn't have any lunch."

"It's not your job to mother me, John." The detective flicked the menu back at him. "I already have Mycroft for that. I know you rely on being a caregiver, but I'm a grown man."

"Hang on-" He was interrupted by a sudden burst of laughter. The doctor looked over his shoulder as the model chuckled loudly. Deep lines carved themselves around his eyes at he grinned at his companion, who straightened in his seat with the air of being pleased with himself. John turned back to Sherlock as the guffawing subsided. "Caregiver?"

"Part of how you judge your self worth is by how you take care of others. Wanting to be a healer is inherently in your nature; that's why you became a doctor." The detective steepled his pale hands and watched John speculatively over his fingertips. "It's also part of why you put up with me. I come across as endlessly frustrating to simpler minds, and you know it better than anyone." His eyes darted to John's, widening slightly as he backpedaled. "No, I didn't mean it like that-"

He exhaled sharply and tried again. "When I insult people, you follow behind me and try to make nice. Why? It doesn't give you any material or societal gain, yet you continue to do it. You did it with the waiter just now. It's because you can't stand to think that people are in any kind of distress or pain, and your gain is the subconscious emotional satisfaction that you relieved them of their hurt."

"When you and I met, you were suffering with a depression that your therapist probably believed to be post traumatic stress disorder. She believed that your time in Afghanistan haunted you, and she was wrong. You came away from that war without thoughts of an anxiety disorder manifested by thoughts that the world is an unsafe place, or a need to control civilian life as you would the chaos of battle." John opened his mouth to interrupt, but the detective raised one finger. "All people come away from traumatic events differently, and you did not come away with the avoidance or stimuli sensitivity that characterize post traumatic stress disorder. You also tolerated various abuses of your privacy in the form of Mycroft and kidnappers, which is rare for one with PTSD. No, you came away with feelings of serving a higher purpose and acquiring a sense of belonging."

"What makes you say that?" John asked, leaning back against the booth.

"You have a strong desire for companionship and emotional security, so you tweak relationships to receive that. Your conflict of auterchy and succorance is reflected in your altruism." Sherlock continued. "How many people let their flatmates experiment on them?"

"You experiment on yourself all the time." he replied.

The detective slapped his hands on the table loudly. "That's for _science_ , John! I recognize that what I am doing to myself will have a measurable beneficial output; I will learn more. You, on the other hand, don't know that because you have no part in the analysis."

He quieted as Rob returned to their table. Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on John's face as he ordered for them both and the waiter swept up their menus.

"My point is, you are unhappy when you cannot take care of people." he said quietly, leaning forward.

"So let me take care of you." John folded his hands in his lap. His shoulders were tight, defiant, and his expression was composed of two parts disagreement and one part arrogance.

"I don't need you take care of me." Sherlock's nose wrinkled in disdain.

The doctor frowned. "You don't need me to pay the rent, you don't need me to take care of you, and you sure as hell don't need to solve cases," he said angrily. "What _do_ you need me for, exactly? Anything?"

Sherlock said nothing, electing to stare at him with mournful eyes.

"You know what your problem is, Sherlock? You can't get attached to people. You seem to think that you can function all by yourself. Guess what," John growled. "You can't." He paused slightly and shook his head. "I really hate confrontations, and I hate it when I fight with people, but I really just can't- What the hell happened to you that made you think you had to push everyone away?"

The scent of warm cheese and chicken hit him as Rob pushed through the door with two plates of pasta. The doctor and the detective leaned away from the table together as he set their meals down and hurried away to the group in the corner.

Sherlock unrolled the napkin at his right hand and laid his silverware out in a row before taking the silver fork. "We haven't spoken much about my history, you and I. Most of our relationship has developed with my knowledge of you being greater than yours of me." He spread his hands, an open gesture. "Do you want me to change that?"

John sat in silence as steam curled up from his plate, coloring the air with tantalizing aromas that mingled pleasantly with the subtle scents in the room. He could hear the model's rich laughter behind him woven with the low tomes of his companion. The redhead was speaking as well, hints of Scotland accenting her voice. Sherlock gave no hint of impatience as he waited for the doctor to respond, preferring to simply watching him piercingly through the veils of steam, his pale fingers still hovering over the table. The moment dragged.

The background noise filtered away and his vision tunneled slightly, blurring ever so slightly about the edges as John lapsed into thought. This was rare; this was incredible. An opportunity. This was like skating out on a pond in early winter right after the frost set in when Jack made his way around England's beautiful green countryside turning the water into gorgeous crystalline wonders. The ice around the edges of the pond was sure and strong, a thing you could trust to hold the extra weight of your new heavy winter coat and bundles of woolly mittens that scratched your hands so much you shed them as soon as Mummy was out of sight. You could stick to the outside of the pond where the ice was thick, but where was the fun in that? You were young, invincible, so you brave the softer structure near the middle and hoped that groaning sound wasn't the ice about to give way. As you venture further out, you get a quick, fluttery feeling of fear that comes with the knowledge that another second could send you into freezing waters. That was the feeling squeezing itself inside of John, shifting its cold fingers around his heart, but he wasn't on the edge of the ice- he was standing right in the center. _Crack._

Since the detective had introduced himself in the laboratory of St Bartholomew's Hospital John had tried to delve into that alien mind and discover exactly how is gears turned and what made them do so. Some bits were easy—Sherlock's mental limits were readily apparent. His knowledge of classic literature, visual and performing arts, philosophy, and astronomy were nonexistent, and his grasp of politics was almost as poor, as was his theoretical and applied physics. Sherlock knew some botany, but more of toxins and poisons than of gardening. His geology was practical and generally limited to the identification and location of soils, but his chemical knowledge was profound. He also understood anatomy well, but it was information gained unsystematically through hands on experience rather than practical studies. The detective seemed to favor sensational literature and knew every horror tale written in the last two centuries, and his fingers knew their way around the violin well. Despite his unhealthy weight, Sherlock was a well practiced singlestick player, boxer, and swordsman, and he felt no qualms in handling handguns. He knew the streets of London better than most seasoned cabbies. Of course, he also had a good practical knowledge of British law—useful, beyond any doubt, to a detective who liked to defend or persecute criminals.

Even with his specialized database, Sherlock managed just fine when approached with cases that took more than he brought to the table as he had the reasoning skills of a supercomputer. On the same note, the detective struggled with things that were too simple; he always wanted the game to be of shadows, with every twist the complex plot of a clever mastermind. He liked logic and the flow of cause and effect from point A to point B.

Of his social skills John knew less, and any guesses at Sherlock’s history were blind shots in the dark. He often wondered if his partner’s animosity with Mycroft was tried and true, bone deep, if in dire situations the detective would refuse aide to his brother, but he had no clues there. John noted his lack of interest in sex or significant relationships—the only woman he’d ever seemed remotely invested in was Irene Adler, and his fixation with her appeared more intellectual than romantic. It had passed rather quickly. Poor Molly had been scorned countless times and John had often hoped that she would abandon her schoolgirl crush on the detective before he broke her completely. Ironically enough, the only person Sherlock spent his time with was John but that was more a sick joke after the falls; not a word for three years.

As for his past, little was apparent. He’d probably met Mike while working in the lab at Barts where he taught. That was also where he’d become acquainted with Molly and through her and her work as a pathology lab assistant in the morgue DI Greg Lestrade and his team, or perhaps a contact of Mycroft or his own detective career had brought them together. Of his family less was known—John had met Myroft Holmes, the eldest male of the house, as well as their aging mother. He’d been told their father died when the boys were little and he’d guessed correctly that they were of a higher social class. Sherlock’s easy spending had told him that much.

That was it. That was all he knew of the illustrious Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. The only one in the world. If a stranger approached him on the street and said “Quick! Tell me everything you know about your partner!” he’d stutter and draw an almost blank—this was all he had. He couldn’t say why Sherlock was so thin, why he refused to eat and ignored his bed until bruise like shadows hung beneath his peculiar eyes, or why the detective was so obviously addicted to nicotine, or what his relationship was with the drugs he’d referenced in the past, or why his clothes never fit. He didn’t know why he hated emotional attachment, why he shunned his brother’s concern, why he chose a reclusive life of insult at the hands of people like Sally Donovan over high careers like that of Mycroft. _He just didn’t know._

Did he want to know more?

_Oh, God yes._

“Alright,” John said, sweeping up his own yellow cloth napkin. It clinked as he unrolled it and laid his cutlery out on the table. “Tell me. Tell me everything.”

Sherlock set his fork back in line with his silverware and folded his hands before his, the stiff cuffs of his dress shirt just brushing the edge of the table. “Okay. I’ll start with my childhood. I suppose that’s where this all began, and what lead me to be who I am today.”

“My mother was wealthy, and powerful. She came from a well-known family, one of tradition and pride. My father was also from old blood, but he and Mummy were two very different people. She was cold, calculating—he was cheerful and full of light. I barely remember my father, but what I do recall is very happy. He died when I was three. Mummy, already a poor parent, became withdrawn. She was a reptilian woman, and I have no idea why she married Father, as she refused to put stock in love and he didn’t share many of her beliefs. After his death, she toed the border between malicious intent and benign negligence.

Mycroft was six when Father left us, and he took on the role of caretaker. He kept me fed, bothered Mummy when I needed clothes, and tucked me in when I had night terrors. He stood for many midnight vigils in front of my closet as night with a forty five when I told him I heard something rattling there in the dark. Mummy tolerated his intrusion on her parenting only because it allowed her more time to work in her study—she was free of tender touches, playing nurse when he were sick, or the tedious bedtime routine. I was never sure why Mycroft went to such lengths to give me a happy childhood. It may have been something Father said to him, or some strange burst of altruism that led to the parentification. Mycroft was not particularly good at it and to me, one who had just lost an important parental figure in my life, he seemed like a young child playing dress-up. Mycroft never stopped feeling responsible for me, and as I grew up I never stopped resenting it.

His efforts were somewhat wasted, anyhow. You could say that I was emotionally disturbed at a very young age, but this disturbance was something that occurred after birth, as I can easily empathize with others. I have what is called a weak-ego structure, or so said the stuttering therapist of my teen years.”

“And what is that?” John asked, folding his arms over his chest.

Sherlock tilted his head slightly. “I... have trouble with relationships, being highly ambivalent and reaching for emotional closeness and rejecting it simultaneously.” He straightened as he continued. “You could also say I have narcissistic personality disorder; I’m sure you know what that is.”

“So in essence, you fear attachment.” John nodded to himself. “Your father died, your mother ignored you, and your older brother couldn’t meet your expectations of a decent parent. You worry, deep down, that anyone you’re close to will leave.”

The detective bit his lip and looked down, almost lost in thought. He nodded.

“What about Greg?”

His stormy eyes flashed up again. “Lestrade met me when I was in my early twenties. I was a stung out, drug addled man back then, and I often hung around crime scenes, commenting when his team members were out of their depth.” Sherlock smirked. “Which was often.”

“His team generally didn’t put much stock into what I had to say. I was quite obviously a junkie, and they were arrogant. But Lestrade saw through the haze of cocaine and realized that I could be a valuable asset.” Sherlock’s face lifted few degrees and his eyelids fluttered as he reached for his left forearm, where he paused, stroking the soft giving muscle at the crook of his arm absentmindedly.

“Cocaine?” asked John incredulously. “You snorted _cocaine?”_

He frowned at the doctor. “I shot it, along with heroin. I mixed it with water and shot it—my seven percent solution.”

John’s voice was still high with confusion. “ _Why?”_

“Control. It helped me regulate my moods between cases, though I will admit that eventually I succumbed to addiction and used it for less beneficial purposes.”

Uncrossing his arms, John reached for his fork and took a stab at his cooling dinner. _Beneficial purposes._ How beneficial could cocaine be?

“Lestrade became a sort of fatherly figure to me. He approached me one day with a proposition; he would let me in on cases, allow my access to police files, if I would promise to never work on my own. And, of course, I had to kick the drug habit.” Sherlock replied, releasing his arm and tapping the table gently with two long fingers. He glanced up as a trio of men sauntered into the restaurant and took seats at the bar, calling Rob by name out to serve them. John watched his partner’s face as his eyes flickered over the newcomers, undoubtedly tearing through their appearances with ease to guess their true selves.

“And did you?”

The detective wrinkled his brow. “I work with him today; what do _you_ think?

John frowned at his plate. There was a tension in the air, thick and coiling with Sherlock's 

“He was a well of unending patience. Lestrade never once made threats to send me to prison despite the obvious legalities of my recreation and he greeted my relapses and arguing with the gruff, firm affection of a knowing parent.” A light smile curled at the edges of Sherlock’s lips. “He sustained a vicious smoking habit at the time, and as I progressed on the rocky road to recovery he forced himself to give up nicotine so he could better fit in my shoes. The addiction passed to me, which undoubtedly made the whole ordeal harder for him as I took to smoking instead of shooting myself up. I must have reeked of cigarettes.”

“So is that why he-“ John made a quick gesture at the inner bend of his elbow. “The arm thing, during the fake bust-“

“Yes.” His partner nodded. “Lestrade checked my arms for signs of needle pricks every time he saw me. A greeting worked up between us—he’d pull up his sleeve and show me his arm, which was usually adorned with a patch, and I’d flash mine.”

Sherlock paused. “What else would you like to know?”

After a moment’s thought and a bite of his pasta, John answered. “Later, I’ll have more questions.”

The detective nodded, and he reached to break the silence lest it continue too long and break this new train of open honesty.

“Sherlock, not everyone in your life is going to die,” he said, motioning with his fork. “You can trust your friends to stick with you. Yeah, I suppose you don’t know the future or if they’ll always stay—but that’s just part of life. None of us know if we’ll see tomorrow. And take a look around you. We’ve all welcomed you back with opened arms. Hell, I waited for you. For weeks, Sherlock. I waited. I believed in you.”

“The question is, do you still believe in me? Words are one thing, John. It is an entirely different matter to try and convince one’s subconscious mind to release a lifetime of fear.”

John met his eyes, a look of fervent energy on his lined face. “I’ll stick with you. I’ll show you you can trust me Sherlock, just you watch.” the doctor said quietly.

“So _sentimental_.” Sherlock commented, a note of amusement in his low voice.

At once the atmosphere was light again. Joking, even.

His partner gave him a look of disapproval and took another forkful of food. “Oh shut up, you appreciate it.

The smirk came again, quirking up one side of his mouth. “Indeed."


	5. The Detective Inspector

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John pay Lestrade a long overdue visit.

The third day of Sherlock’s return dawned in a much gentler fashion than the day previous; John woke well rested to a quiet flat and as he admired the pale shafts of sunlight cutting through his bedroom he decided that perhaps it might turn out to be a satisfactorily calm day. Of course, such decisions cannot reasonably made when one is still half asleep and curled in bed where everything seems cozy and nice, and particularly when one’s flatmate is at time little more than a petulant five-year-old brooding in the rooms below. Regardless, that was John’s conclusion and he told himself firmly that he would adhere to it was he dressed and descended the stairs.

About the living room various dusty boxes were scattered, their contents scattered about the floor or resting on the assorted tables and chairs in the room. Apparently Sherlock had found his things in the flat below sometime while John had slept- Mrs Hudson had finally given up on renting the dodgy old place and allowed him to use it as a storage.

Temporarily, she’d insisted, but they both knew how honest such a constraint was.

Now he supposed it had been temporary after all.

John settled into his chair next to the fireplace, mobile in hand as he tried to find the right phrase to bring Lestrade to the flat. Knowing how his history intertwined with Sherlock's made the task in need of more delicacy than he had previously assumed. Their discussion at the diner last night had clarified a great deal about the detective. He still had questions, of course, but fewer in number than before, and the open honesty of the night prior was still in effect.

A quiet rustling alerted him to Sherlock's presence in the living room and he caught a glimpse of his flatmate over one shoulder. He stood in the doorway to the kitchen as he pulled the faded blue dressing gown over his soft cotton shirt and yawned, gazing about the flat with the sleepy, curious air of a child who had just woken up. His dark curls were rumpled and flattened slightly on one side.

“Good morning,” announced John as he entered the room. The detective gave no response and made no move to show his greeting had been heard. He frowned to himself and returned his attentions to the mobile in his lap.

There was a sudden tingling along his neck; the detective gracefully swooped up behind him and placed his chin on John's shoulder to better peer at the screen of his phone.

"Don't bother sending him a message-he's probably tied up at the station." Sherlock murmured, moving away again as he finished adjusting the sleeves of his robe. One shoulder of the garment slumped down his arm, and John’s mouth curled into a grin.

“On a Sunday?”

Sherlock shrugged. “He works with Anderson,” countered the detective in a judgemental tone. “How fast do you think he solves cases these days, with that kind of help?”

"Well, we can't just waltz in, Sherlock," John said, turning in his seat to fix his partner with a disapproving stare. “I’ll schedule an appointment, I guess.”

“Don’t bother,” came the distant reply. John frowned again as Sherlock stepped away and flung himself onto the couch.

As the detective settled himself amid the squeak of cheap springs, John stood and made for the kitchen. Farewell, headless fridge, he thought to himself- Soon the stainless steel would be filled with all manner of slowly deteriorating organs and severed limbs, and there was nothing he’d be able to do about it except chastise his flatmate when the smell got too bad, although things generally didn’t get to that level. Cold air washed over his skin as he opened the appliance, and the temperature difference quickly raised gooseflesh on his forearms.

A small jar of jam peeked shyly from behind a bottle of thick dressing in one of the shelves in the door, and John plucked it out before shutting the refrigerator and turning away. A loaf was in the pantry, and he dug two slices of whole wheat out, which he proceeded to place in the toaster by the stove. As it hummed itself awake, he pulled a plate from the rack above his head and set it on the counter.

The minutes ticked away and the smell of warming bread drifted around the kitchen until at last the toaster emitted a short, happy ding and proudly displayed it’s not-quite-burnt product. John took it with a soft sigh- he could never get the settings on the blasted thing right- and pulled his toast to the plate. Next came a flashing butter knife and the smooth slide of seedless strawberry, for the breakfast of kings. Or poor ex-army doctors in London.

John was halfway through his first slice before he came up with a reason to visit Lestrade on a Sunday at the office, but after he sent the message asking for a meeting the detective inspector was perfectly amiable in fitting him in, so they settled on a time of two thirty. “You’ve got seven hours, Sherlock,” he called through a mouthful of toast. “Then we’ll have to leave for the station.”

“Not going.”

“You have to.”

There came no reply, and John finished his breakfast in silence.

* * *

“John, I’m not going.”

“We are not having this conversation again.” John squeezed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “We’ve already talked about this. Far too many times. In fact, if you could just grow up and listen to me, we can never have this argument again, and I will be quite happy with that.”

“I don’t want to go, John.” Sherlock shifted in his chair, tucking the edge of his gown under his thigh.

“Sherlock, you’ll have to see Greg at some point in time. You could at least have the decency to inform him before popping up at a crime scene unannounced.”

“Mmm, yes.” Sherlock frowned and drummed his fingers on his lower lip, lost in thought. “Unannounced, wouldn’t want to do that … give me five minutes.”

“Sorry?” John arched an eyebrow. “Five minutes for what?”

“Five minutes and I’ll be ready to go.”

“But we’re not supposed to meet with Greg for another three hours.”

“Five minutes!” Sherlock jumped up from his chair and disappeared down the hall without another word. Four minutes later, he reappeared, fully dressed and scarf in hand. “Let’s go.”

John’s eyes widened. “Sherlock, whatever it is you’re planning to do -”

“Are you coming or not? We mustn’t keep Lestrade waiting. After all, I should have the decency to inform him of my return, should I not?” The detective looped his scarf around his neck and shrugged on his coat. “I am going with or without you.” Without waiting for an answer, he flew out the door and down the steps.

John sighed as he pulled on his coat and retrieved his house keys from the kitchen table. There was no point in trying to argue with Sherlock at this point. He said a silent prayer to whatever deity was listening that Sherlock wouldn’t destroy London in his wake and made his way downstairs, where a cab was already idling at the curb. As he slid into the backseat, he rummaged through his pockets to find his mobile and, much to his surprise, couldn’t find it.

“Looking for this?” Sherlock held out John’s phone in one hand.

“Really? And you felt the need to nick my phone because?” John muttered as he snatched his mobile back. It felt surprisingly light in his hand, and he turned it over to find the battery missing. “The hell?”

“Clearly I couldn’t let you phone ahead and ruin the surprise.”

“Ruin the sur- oh, god, no. Sherlock, you wouldn’t.”

Sherlock smirked. “You said I shouldn’t wait, John.”

“That is not what I meant, you twat.”

“Such rude language, John. I doubt Lestrade would approve.”

John opened his mouth to continue, but decided against it. He sat in silence for the rest of the ride, trying to figure out how to prevent Lestrade from taking out three years’ worth of aggression on Sherlock. When the cab rolled to a stop outside of the New Scotland Yard offices ten minutes later, he’d yet to come up with a solution.

“Come along, John.” Sherlock whisked him through the front door of the building, ignoring the front desk receptionist, who was insisting that they weren’t allowed in without proper clearance. John hurriedly explained “We’re here to see Inspector Lestrade, he’ll know it’s us,” before chasing after Sherlock, who strode almost flamboyantly past the detectives stationed at their desks. The ones that recognized him did a double take, while the new ones looked puzzled about all the fuss. Without so much as a knock, Sherlock flung open the door to Lestrade’s office and plopped down into the chair across from him.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock announced, clearly waiting for a reaction.

“You couldn’t have knocked first?” Lestrade answered, not even bothering to look up from the case file in his hands. “I thought we had an appointment later today.”

Sherlock leaned forward, hands on the desk, scrutinizing Lestrade’s every facial expression. “Inspector. You are aware of who I am.”

“It’s hard not to be aware of you, Sherlock.”

John tried unsuccessfully to stifle his rising chuckle with a cough as Sherlock collapsed back in his chair, looking utterly defeated. “You’re not shocked, angry, even the least bit astonished,” the detective intoned incredulously with narrowed eyes.

“Not in the slightest.” Lestrade set down his case file and nodded to John. “Nice of you to drop by, John. Although I thought we’d agreed on two thirty?”

“We did. But I guess he had other plans.” John gave Lestrade an apologetic look. “You’re taking this rather well.”

“He already knew,” Sherlock answered flatly. “And he’s known for a while. But how?”

“Really? Even I figured this one out, Sherlock.”

Dark curls bounced as Sherlock whipped his head around to look at John. “What? How?”

Lestrade’s mobile vibrated on the desk. He picked it up and held it to his ear. “Hey, sweetheart. What’re you up to?”

“SWEETHEART?”

“Shhhhhh. Sorry, what was that?” Lestrade returned his attention to his phone. “Yeah, we’re still on for dinner. I get off at six. Love you, too.”

“Oh. Of course. Molly. I should have known she couldn’t keep it to herself.”

“She only told me because I was so broken up over it,” answered Lestrade. “You know the rest of us did think you actually took your own life? All of us beating ourselves up, trying to figure out how we could have stopped it. Even Donovan felt bad for calling you names. Speaking of, you’ve got an audience.” He motioned to the glass windows that made up the walls of his office.

Donovan had risen from her desk and was staring, open-mouthed, not even appearing to breathe. Sherlock looked at her from over his shoulder and raised his hand to give her a tiny wave. She shut her mouth, glared at him, and promptly sat back down, suddenly busy with the paperwork scattered across her desk.

“At least that gave me some satisfaction,” Sherlock muttered. “I’ll have to speak with Molly about this later.”

“Don’t even think about it.” Lestrade stood from his chair and looked down into Sherlock’s face. “You might be home, but you don’t run the show anymore. You’ve got a lot of apologies to make and a lot of wrongs to right. You might want to start with those. If you gentlemen will excuse me.” He made his way to the door and held it open, prompting John to usher Sherlock out of the building. Once they were safely outside, John laid into Sherlock.

“The hell were you thinking? Your theatrics are completely unnecessary.”

Sherlock made a face like a child who’d had his favourite toy taken away. “There isn’t a subtle way to inform someone you’ve come back from the dead, John.”

“No, but there are certainly gentler ways than that.”

The cab ride home was nothing but silence. For the first time since Sherlock had come back to life, John wondered if it would have been better if he’d stayed dead. Immediately, he berated himself for the thought and turned away from it in his mind, but it still stuck in him like a burr, nagging in the depths.


	6. Downward Spiral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Are John and Sherlock ready to live together?

Rain settled in again sometime in the late afternoon and kept up a slow, steady patter on the roof throughout the rest of the day. Another argument occurred, perhaps the result of being cooped up together in the flat with nothing to do but move boxes from the unrented rooms. Soon Sherlock had his microscope returned to the kitchen and loads of case files, books, and his odd assortment of tools were sitting in the living room waiting to be sorted. It was a gritty job, filled with both the grime of months of dust and three years’ worth of emotions neither had yet come to terms with.

Dinner that evening was a strained affair; Sherlock glowered over his tray and John pointedly ignored his tempestuous eyes and skimmed through the newspaper propped against one of the chemical stained bottles to his left. The table was already rapidly becoming cluttered with various bits of glassware, things John hadn’t wanted to see since his last chemistry class.

The news was rather uninteresting, and it was really only a prolongation of the inevitable, the inevitable being the rising temperatures of the flat. Right now, things had simmered down, a pot on the back burner. Not quite forgotten and not yet at room temperature- poised at the cusp of boiling. They both had to tread lightly or risk watching the pot boil over yet again.

The night passed as one long string of tense silences. John fled the living room earlier than usual and lay in the soft shadows of his room for a long while as the strains of a violin played in the minor key drifted through the flat below. The harsh notes crept up the walls like strands of ivy, seeping through the floorboards and settling into the carpet. John rolled over in bed, resisting the urge to pull a pillow over his head to muffle the sounds. The music stopped and he frowned at the wall, wondering what Sherlock was up to this time.

A few moments later, the music began again, softer this time. John sat up in bed and tilted his head to listen. As the melody floated up the stairwell, John recognized the tune. He couldn’t remember what the piece was called, but he’d once commented to Sherlock on how much he liked it. Sherlock Holmes almost never apologized, and when he did, it usually wasn’t in so many words. And here, with John in his bed and Sherlock playing his favorite song, whispers of _I’m sorry_ danced between the chords.

John sighed and settled back into his bed. The flames beneath the pot were dying down - he wondered how long it would take to stir them back up again, but despite his foreboding he could appreciate the small moment of peace.

* * *

The funny thing about being woken abruptly is that it can begin with a person feeling slightly befuddled and end with them in such a murderous state that if they ever hear one word about experiments ever again their hands just might find their way around their flatmate’s pale neck and wring it.

“Dammit, Sherlock!” John’s eyes burned as he waved his hand at the curling smoke billowing around the flat, but his effort to dispel it was futile; after a few moments he gave up and stepped over several long shards of glass that lay on the kitchen floor. The light caught their sharp edges as he moved. “What the hell did you do down here?” he cried before a small fit of coughing seized. He brought one sleeve of his jumper to his face as the spasm passed.

Sherlock appeared through the cloud of smoke, a gloved hand holding a towel over his mouth and nose. “Someone’s mislabeled my supplies,” he snapped, glaring at John through the haze. “I used the wrong bottle - something highly flammable, mind you - and then this happened.” He bent to start picking up the pieces of glass, muttering under his breath about organization and Mrs. Hudson and John. He dumped the glass in the bin and swept past John to open the living room window in an attempt to clear out the smoke.

He coughed again and shot a glare after the detective. “You know, for one so smart,” he called as he bent to retrieve a piece of glass from under the protruding lip of the cupboards under the counter. It was warm and John absently stroked his thumb across the smooth face. “For one so smart, you’d think you’d know the difference between your mixtures.” He set the glass on the countertop and continued to the still smoking remains of a burner by the stove. It was the clear origin of the explosion and lances of clear glass spread from it in a great circle as yellowish gas hazed in the air above. It was probably acidic, and John eyed it warily. “Even you should be no stranger to precaution, Sherlock.”

“I shouldn’t have to take precautions with my own supplies, John.” Sherlock pulled the towel away from his mouth and began using it to fan the smoke out the open window. “I was very particular about how I had these labeled and organized. Even an idiot could use them, assuming the labels were on their proper containers.” He came back into the kitchen, continuing to fan at the cloud of smoke. “Of all the things you could have chosen to fiddle with in my absence, you had to pick the most dangerous parts of the lot? Really, John, I would have thought you much more intelligent than that. Or do they not require doctors to take basic chemistry anymore?”

John paused with a stack of sharp fragments and held up a hand. Stop, it warned. “Are you saying this is my fault?” he asked, his voice rising as it took on a dangerous tone. “Are you really? For _god’s_ sake, Sherlock, I thought to you were dead. I wasn’t planning on organizing anything,” the doctor growled. He cast scathing eyes down the detective’s figure, noting the torn cloth and singed skin beneath. “And I didn’t think you were coming back for it either. You’re lucky you weren’t seriously injured.” John frowned loudly. “In any case, I’m not the one playing chemist in the kitchen. Don’t matter what classes I took,” shouted the doctor, “and yes, I did take chemistry.”

“Quiet down, John, you’re going to wake the whole street.” Sherlock brushed off the man’s comments and peeled off his gloves. He examined himself, gingerly touching the edges of the burn on his ribcage and the cut on his arm where the glass had caught him. “And you’ve moved the first aid kit. You could stand to be a little more helpful.” He whisked down the hall to the bathroom, searching for bandages. “It’s not here either. What have you done with it?” He resorted to a wet paper towel, pressing it to the burn and ignoring his bleeding arm for the time being. He stared expectantly at John. “Well? Are you just going to stand there all day or are you going to help?”

“I’m going to-” John paused and took a moment to collect himself as the detective strode through the flat. “YOU JUST SET OFF A BLOODY EXPLOSION.” He opened a set of cupboards and pulled out a compact white box, which he then proceeded to throw in the general direction of the detective. “It is not my job to follow after you and clean this up like you’re some- some sort of child!” John fixed his flatmate with a dark stare and they stood quietly for a moment, their eyes locked through the thick fumes. A thought came, and he loathed to utter it- he felt a touch like the eldest Holmes and almost bit back the words on his tongue, but they needed to be said; he spat them out to rid himself of their flavor. “It’s time for you to grow up.”

 _Grow up._ Certainly not the first time Sherlock had heard those words, and he doubted that would be the last. Even so, as he reached out to catch the med kit, there was a strange pang somewhere deep in his heart. Years of hearing those words - from his mother, from Mycroft, from the children he’d gone to school with, even from Lestrade on occasion - had worn at him, and though he’d mostly desensitized himself to them, they stung even more coming from John. Where he had deleted social graces and political niceties from his mind to make room for more relevant information, others had substituted immaturity. Despite his obvious brilliance, in the end, his lack of tact and sensitivity to others’ emotions were the only things anyone ever saw. He dipped his head in acknowledgment of John’s words and fixed him with an even stare. “What would you have me do, then?”

As he met the detective’s eyes once more, John felt a quick flash of cold horror and an instant, unshakable regret. Oh. Oh. He should have known better than to say- he knew, deep down, the quiet insecurities Sherlock carried, and his heart clenched at the brazen betrayal in the face opposite his. “Sherlock, I-” he started. There was no decent way to apologize for it, and no real way to take the words back- and anyways, he was right, wasn’t he? This strange kidult had growing up to do. John wouldn’t always be there to clean up the messes and patch up the burns, and hell, he shouldn’t really have to in the first place. He didn’t sign up to take on a child, he came to pay the rent, and that’s what John told himself firmly as he drew himself up. “Just...” he trailed off again, losing steam as he looked about the kitchen. “Clean this up. Call me if you need help with those burns; I’ll be up in my room.” John made a vague gesture about the room and walked past his flatmate with slumping shoulders.

Sherlock stood in silence, waiting until John had disappeared up the stairs before shedding his torn and burnt shirt to dress his wounds. He surveyed the kitchen as he applied ointment to his torso and haphazardly bandaged it. John was correct, of course, and he knew that. He opted to forgo what ordinary people considered to be “adult” behavior - it took too much time when he could be doing more important things. He could care less what others thought of him, but for whatever reason, John’s opinion mattered. Even after all this time, John mattered. And he shouldn’t have mattered as much as he did - sentiment - but as Sherlock cleaned up the remnants of the explosion, he couldn’t shake the thought. He retired to his bedroom with his violin, hoping to distract himself from his own thoughts.

* * *

Once in his room John sat for a moment on his bed- just sat and blanked out his mind of the whole scene below. He paused there for a moment before glancing at the clock on his bedside table and muttering a slew of dark curses. Late again, never mind the fact that it was a Monday morning and half the staff would come in five minutes behind with flushed cheeks and Starbucks anyways; John didn’t like being the slacker, so he stood and tugged away his sleep shirt, grimacing at the acrid smell clinging to the fabric. He dressed quickly and hurried to the bathroom before dashing out the door and onto the busy sidewalk.

Hailing a cab was easy that morning, a fact for which John was grateful, and he sped onwards to the hospital in the confines of its worn interior. The streets were still slicked with the remaining wetness of the previous rainfall, and the sky was dreary and overcast. John spent most of the ride in internal reflection, and was almost surprised when his coach pulled to a stop outside of the imposing building. When he stepped out onto the curb he was greeted by a fresh speckling of a drizzle that wasn’t due until noon, so he shuffled into the safety warm front hall before the light moisture had the chance to dampen his clothes.

The first few hours of his shift passed slowly. There wasn’t really much to busy himself with besides a handful of easy appointments, and after those were over and done with John was left with nothing but his thoughts to keep him company. Thus the doctor spent the morning drifting in a cold grey sea of musing. Sarah popped in once, twice to remind him of his duties and the paperwork he had to hand in in two days, and both times she came in to find her worker staring thoughtfully into the distance with his hands clasped on the desk in front of him.

Around noon he gave himself a shake and rose to hunt down lunch in the cafeteria. As he gazed distastefully at the gloopy contents of one steel container in the lunch counter, Molly hesitantly approached.

“Ello, John,” she said brightly, offering what she hoped was a friendly smile. “I heard - I mean, I know that - well, he’s come home. Sherlock, I mean. I was just wondering, y’know, how you were doing?” She anxiously twisted the cap on her water bottle. “I haven’t heard anything from you, and Greg said you came by yesterday, and I just - I mean, I wanted to know - but you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.” She fell silent for a moment, then tried again. “Mind if I have lunch with you?”

John resisted the temptation to say something rather nasty and instead gave her a slight smile and a short dip of his head. Yes, she’d kept the whole thing under wraps, but he wouldn’t have been surprised if Sherlock had bullied her into the whole thing, and he had to give her credit for not spilling it to him. Still, John was a bit miffed. “Things are, things are alright, I guess.” he offered as he dug up a questionable sandwich covered in clear wrapping. Molly shadowed him as he moved to sit. “He blew up the kitchen this morning, so I guess there’s that.” A hint of annoyance grew in his voice as he unwrapped his lunch. “He’s already gone off on me about how I packed his things- it wasn’t like I could know he’d come back for them.” John took a bite of his sandwich and raised his eyes to Molly’s. “He needs to learn that he has to live with his actions, from the fall to the little things that I end up cleaning up.”

Molly wrung her hands on the table, trying to come up with a proper response. “I know, he’s just - he’s trying to adjust, you know? And it’s going to take some time, for him to . . . to be around people again. Especially you. Well, us, I mean, but . . .” She bit the inside of her cheek and lowered her eyes, unable to look John in the face. “He talked about you. All the time. Wanted updates on how you were doing and such. I know he’s a bit rough round the edges, but he really did care about you. All the time he was gone, he just wanted to know you were okay.” She picked at the pile of crisps on her plate, appetite suddenly gone. She glanced up at John through her eyelashes, hoping for a kinder response.

“He has a damn fine way of showing it,” he muttered, dropping his gaze to the scuffed table. There was the faintest residue of some quick drying cleaning agent that had gone on too thick to properly dry, and he absently wiped at a drop with one finger as he pondered a polite rebuttal. “Listen,” John began earnestly. “These past three years have not been easy for me. For any of us really, but it seems like I have one of the only ones kept in the dark. Hell, I lived with him,” Molly cringed under his stern eyes, and John sighed as he started over again in an attempt to redirect his frustration. “It’s just a bit difficult to be stuck in this thought that your best friend is dead, and then out of the blue he shows up on your doorstep. God, Molly, I wanted to murder him.” He smiled, a wistful, melancholic motion. “And then here you and Greg knew, and he’s off blowing up the kitchen. It’s hard to get back into that.”

“He just hasn’t moved on, you know?” Molly sputtered, trying her best to defend Sherlock. “We learned to live without him here. He . . . he just sort of put his whole life on hold, for three years. He’s got to relearn how to be a part of our lives again, that’s all. Different routine, different ways of doing things. He’s trying to jump back in time and . . . and I don’t think he knows how hard that is on the rest of us.” She hesitantly reached out to put a gentle hand on John’s arm. “Just . . . be patient with him. That’s all. He just needs time to get used to things.”

His temper flared again. “I put my life on hold. For three years. It’s different for him- he knew I was alive. He got updates. I had nothing like that.” John glared at her as he growled the words out in a low voice. “Nobody should have to bury their best friend.” Even as he understood she was trying to express both a concern for the detective and create a defense for his behavior, John couldn’t help but feel a little bothered by it all. It was just too- he didn’t even know how to formulate it. Sherlock’s return was a strain for each of them. Hell, maybe it would be better- no. “Look, I appreciate your effort, but this is really something I’ve got to sort out on my own.” John rose from the table and tossed his half eaten lunch in the bin by the door, leaving Molly looking hurt behind him.

In hindsight John was more than a little upset with himself for the curtness he greeted people with the rest of the day, but at the time he brushed it off as the want to be left well enough alone. By the time he got back to the flat the doctor felt more than hassled and was ready to call it a day and settle down to a hot meal and crap telly.

The thing John needed to realize was that it was useless to make such domestic plans when plotting detectives were running about in the flat. He opened the door and stepped out of the rain, but his relief at the prospect of a nice evening indoors quickly dissipated as he arrived on the upper level to find Sherlock perched in his chair with John’s own laptop balanced precariously on his knees.

He paused in the entryway. “Sherlock,” he began in a voice that scarcely restrained his rising annoyance. “You have a laptop. I kept it.” John trailed one hand behind him and pointed at the lower flat. “It was right down there. Why the hell are you on mine?”

“Mine is hopelessly outdated and it’s been sitting unused for three years,” Sherlock explained in a bored tone, not even bothering to look up. “You’ve upgraded your system to keep up with the times. Changed the password, too, though I’m not sure why, assuming there isn’t someone else who was using your laptop on a regular basis. Funny, you’ve got a lot more naked women in your browser history than usual. Haven’t dated much, then. Haven’t or wouldn’t? Wouldn’t date is much more likely.” He drummed his fingertips on the keyboard, eyes focused intently on the screen. “Apparently my chemical supplier in southern London has gone out of business since I’ve been gone. Means I’ll have to find another one who won’t ask questions.” He rolled his eyes and finally looked up at John, who just stood there, staring. “Problem?”

John sighed and gave himself one moment of stunned, wrathful silence while he pinched the bridge of his nose, then his head jerked up and he met the detective’s eyes. His own were seething. “Yes, Sherlock. I have a problem.” His voice cracked out, and the fire in his gaze grew. “I have a problem with you, with all of this.” Sherlock opened his mouth to respond but he cut off the argument before it breached his lips. “You could have set fire to the whole flat today, and you want to go and order more things to blow us up with?” John’s hand snapped forward to gesture at the computer as his voice rose. “And now you sit there, with your popped collars, and that stupid coat, and violate- that’s mine, Sherlock! My personal property.” As he watched his flatmate’s reaction John ran his fingers roughly through his hair and shook his head. When he spoke again his tones were lower, almost tinged with sadness. “And then you- with the- no, I haven’t seen anyone in a while. But that’s none of your business.”

Sherlock frowned, taken aback at John’s sudden outburst. “You’ve never had a problem with this before,” he said, closing the laptop and setting it down on the coffee table. He swept his eyes over John and stood, making several deductions in the three seconds it took him to stand up. “You’re still angry with me. Not over the laptop, not even over this morning’s accident in the kitchen. No, you’re cross with me for intruding upon your life. Am I right? That’s all I am. An intruder in my own home.” He glanced around the flat, looking at the familiar landmarks that made up the space he had called home for a long time. “I suppose it’s not my home anymore, is it? It’s yours now.” His voice grew quieter towards the end of that sentence. “What would you have me do, John? Clearly you are the voice to be heard on such matters.”

“Don’t be so snide about it,” he replied, shifting his gaze away. There was an anger inside of him, licking the insides of his ribs like a pit fire, but curling about the cage of his bones were tendrils of silvery longing and sorrow long tempered by the wait of three years. “That’s not how it is and-” John paused. Inhale. Exhale. Find the words; not the harsh, sharp ones that tasted of sulfur, but the softer phrases. “I know that this is a big adjustment for both of us and we’re going to need to make some sacrifices for it to work. I just... I would appreciate it if you didn’t use my laptop. And if the table wasn’t so full of things. And if you didn’t set fire to the kitchen.” He sighed again. “But that’s beside the point. Maybe we just need a few days.”

“This was normal behavior before I left. I fail to understand why my use of your laptop and having experiments scattered round the flat is suddenly a problem.” The detective took several steps forward so that he was close enough to reach out and touch his friend. “Don’t pity yourself, John, it’s very unbecoming. After three years of being shot at, stabbed, sleeping in the streets, and engaging in questionable legal practices, I come home to find that Dr. John Watson has dissolved into a puddle of self-pity. Everyone else moved on. Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, even Mycroft. Everyone but you. And here you stand, wandering about like a child who has lost his favourite toy. You might tell me that I need to grow up, John, but I am not the only one at fault here. Holding on to old sentiments far beyond what is healthy - it’s pathetic.” He clamped his mouth shut and peered intently at John. Perhaps that was a bit harsh, but it was entirely deserved.

The doctor’s eyes narrowed and his voice dropped again, this time to something terrible in its deathly calm. “Pathetic? I’m human, Sherlock, and it seems that you don’t get what that means exactly.” He caught his flatmate’s glance and held it, his face full of an aggressive challenge as he took a step into the room. His hands began to shake with rage- he flung them out in wild gesticulations. “I thought you were dead. Dead, Sherlock. I buried you. I went up on that hill where they treated me like the wife left behind, and I stood with your brother and your mother and all the other people who gave a damn about you despite all of the tricks you pulled, and I buried you. But you know what?” He was panting now. “It was different for me. I knew you better than any of them.”

“From the first moment-” John faltered and stood stiffly for a moment before continuing. “The moment, when I cried out, and you ran up those stairs to bring me out into the light, you changed the way I saw things. You were different. And you know what, Sherlock? You can’t do things like that and then leave. You can’t make it brighter and then take it all away again.”

He cocked his head slightly to the side and his jaw clenched as the red tide seethed behind his eyes. “Get out. Now. Just. Just get out.”

There was a long period of silence. John’s words hung in the air, bombs waiting to drop the minute Sherlock opened his mouth to speak. Instead, he merely nodded in response to the command and took a step back, holding up his hands in surrender. He retrieved his coat from where it was draped over the back of the sofa and slowly pulled it on. Scarf in hand, he strode past John and down the stairs without so much as a glance back over his shoulder. The rain was still falling steadily outside, but Sherlock ignored it and hailed a cab. He climbed into the backseat in silence, running a hand through his damp curls as he got lost in his own thoughts.

Perhaps he’d underestimated his and John’s relationship. He knew everyone would have been upset when he’d “died”. Mum and Mycroft were family, they would have been upset (but the mourning period short - relation or not, they were still the Holmes family). Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson would mourn for a short time, then continue on with their regular lives. The others he had known and worked with would have expressed a socially acceptable amount of grief before moving on to other things and forgetting him. Sherlock Holmes, fake detective. A distant memory of something that once was. But John . . . John was different. John had been broken. While Sherlock had managed to slip back into everyone else’s life without much fuss, John was the most affected of the bunch.

The cab pulled up in front of an old-but-well-kept manor, and Sherlock handed a wad of bills to the cabbie without bothering to count it. As he made his way up the steps and approached the door, he wondered if he could disappear again. As much as he had missed John, his resurrection had done more harm than good. John was all that mattered. And if he needed to stay out of John’s life so that the man might have some peace of mind, so be it.

The door opened before Sherlock could lift his hand to knock. Mycroft greeted him with a dip of his head. “Need a place to sleep?”

“Please.”

Mycroft ushered his brother out of the rain and into the dry warmth of the house. He didn’t say anything, but placed a reassuring hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Mycroft?”

“Sherlock?”

“I’m afraid I’ve made a proper mess of things.”

For the first time since they were young children, Mycroft saw fear and disappointment in his brother’s eyes. He sighed and gave Sherlock’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Let’s get some sleep. Everything looks better when the sun comes out.”


	7. A Viscious Motivator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bitterness is a paralytic. Love, however, is a much more vicious motivator.

It had been three days since Sherlock left Baker Street.

 

He hadn’t uttered a word since greeting Mycroft the other night. He’d barely gotten out of bed, preferring to remain lost in his own thoughts. Lestrade still wouldn’t let him take any cases - how long did one need to be back from the dead before one was considered competent? Stupid, really - and here in Mycroft’s home, he had no access to any sort of scientific equipment for experiments. He was quite content to lie here in bed for the time being, his thoughts racing, some barely registering before they were gone again. They fluttered in and out of his mind like butterflies in his hands, and deductions presented themselves without his permission.

 

_Mycroft’s lost weight, surprisingly enough. Not much, but enough. He’s aged, too. I’ve grown sentimental over the years. John is angry with me. He’s every right to. I should not have spoken so harshly with him. But he was wrong. Why’s he so wrapped up in old mindsets? I should have words with Molly - she could have ruined the whole plan because she couldn’t keep her emotions in check. I suppose it was well-intentioned, at least in her mind. Lestrade could certainly do worse. At least Molly is much less likely to have an affair. Have I let my defenses down? Perhaps. I’ve grown complacent since I have been home. I need a cigarette._

There was a soft knock at the door, followed by footsteps and Mycroft’s voice. “It’s nearly noon. Do you plan on getting dressed today, or shall I drag you out of bed by your ankles?” Silence. “Sherlock, I understand you’re . . . upset right now, but you cannot remain in this state.” More silence. “Very well. I’ve brought you something.” A dull thud, followed by the clatter of metal on the hardwood floors. “It’s not like your current one, but I thought you might find it soothing.” The door latching, more footsteps disappearing down the hall.

 

Sherlock sat up in bed and cast his eyes towards the door. A dark leather violin case lay on its side, the metal clasps reflecting the bright sunlight that poured in through the windows. He shrugged on his dressing gown and shuffled over to the violin case. The gold clasps made a soft chink as he opened them and lifted the lid. This violin was old - at least 25 years, perhaps more - but had been maintained over its life. Newer strings, replaced in the last six months or so. A new bow, the old one long discarded. He eyed the yellowed label on the underside of the lid, his mother's distinct handwriting still visible.

 

_To Sherlock, on his 12th birthday. With love, Mummy and Mycroft._

 

Mummy could be so sentimental when she wanted to be. Perhaps it gave her the satisfaction of thinking she was a good parent. Sherlock lifted the violin out of its case and tucked it under his chin, fingers dancing delicately across the neck of the instrument. He played softly at first, major chords and bright notes, adjusting to the feel of this particular violin under his hands. As he played on, the music grew louder and more aggressive, filling the small room and spilling out the open window and onto the grass below. A hurricane of sounds, unspoken words, and three years of pent-up emotions swirled about him, heat rising in his chest and tension building in the measures of music that followed. He was unsure of how long he played, but when he finally ended the piece and pulled his fingers away, he realized he’d shredded the bow string and split open his left ring finger.

 

He swore under his breath and set the violin down on the bed, scowling at it as if it were the violin’s fault. He snatched a tissue from the bedside table and held it to his finger, applying pressure to stop the bleeding. A sudden burst of sleepiness overwhelmed him, and he laid back down on the bed, eyes closed, trying desperately to turn off the flow of emotions to his head.

 

* * *

 

 

Five days.

 

Sherlock crawled out of bed around eight, dressed himself, and made an attempt to appear like a human being. He had breakfast with Mycroft, albeit in silence, and walked the grounds of his childhood home in an attempt to distract himself. The day dragged on and was relatively uneventful until he found Mycroft in the middle of a phone call in the east wing of the house. An old drawing room, long since put out of use - clearly Mycroft had something to hide. Sherlock leaned against the doorway, safely out of sight from his elder brother, and listened in.

 

“. . . of course he came to me. Where else would he go?” Pause. “He hasn’t spoken in five days.” _Me, of course. Is he speaking with John?_ “No, he speaks very little. Even with the Adler woman, you told me he spoke up long enough to shout at the telly. He’s literally not said a word in five days. Not to me, not to anyone. He’s barely gotten out of bed.” _Most definitely John. Reassuring Mycroft that I am prone to long bouts of silence._ “He shredded the bow on the violin I gave him. I know this has been . . . difficult. For all of us. I’m worried about my little brother, John. I don’t think he’s stable. Have you tried to speak with him?” _Unstable? A bit chuffed, but certainly not unstable. It's not as though I'm pining away for him, wishing he would ring me._ “Perhaps you are right.” Another pause. “And you? How are you faring through all of this?” A long, uncomfortable silence. “Fair enough. I shall update you if his condition changes.”

 

Mycroft hung up, and Sherlock disappeared down the hall, a ghost in the abandoned portions of his old home. That's all he was, really - a ghost. A shadow of what once was. An old photograph, placed in a shoebox full of treasured memories, only to be forgotten when the current tenants moved out of the house.

 

His mobile buzzed in his pocket with a phone call from Molly. He tapped the ignore button. Thirty seconds later, another buzz - Molly had left a voicemail.

 

"Hello, Sherlock. It's Molly. Um, haven't seen you around or heard from you in a few days - Greg and I were wondering if you'd like to have dinner with us at our house? Unless you're busy, of course. Um... Seven tomorrow? Call me, or text me, whatever is best for you. Let me know. Bye."

 

He never returned her call.

 

* * *

 

Nine days.

 

Sherlock was already at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee when Mycroft came downstairs that morning, newspaper spread on the table in front of him. He didn’t bother to look up, but muttered a “Good morning” as his brother made his way to the coffee pot on the counter.

 

“Found your voice, have you?” Mycroft commented, pouring coffee into a cup and retrieving the milk from the refrigerator. Sherlock responded with a noise of acknowledgment. “Sherlock, as much as I enjoy having you around again, I would like to know if you plan on staying here permanently.”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“Well, perhaps you should figure that out.”

 

“It’s not that simple, Mycroft.”

 

“Of course it isn’t. You’ve been moping around for a week, wrestling with your inner turmoil while managing to avoid the problem entirely. Sitting here, drinking tea and playing your violin isn’t going to solve anything.”

 

“I’m busy.”

 

“Doing what?”

 

“Solving a murder.” Sherlock pointed to a headline on the open page in front of him. _Elderly woman commits suicide in home._ “Her son killed her for the insurance money.”

 

“You solved a murder based on a newspaper article?”

 

“It’s utterly predictable. Hardly a difficult deduction.”

 

Mycroft stirred his coffee and took a sip, his eyebrows furrowed in thought. After a long moment, his eyebrows relaxed. “Perhaps you should phone Inspector Lestrade and inform him of the news.” He finished his coffee, set the mug in the sink, and went on his way towards the living room.

 

Sherlock retrieved his mobile from underneath the pages of newsprint and scrolled through his contacts. He still had Lestrade’s number, but he hadn’t used it in a very long time. He paused, then hesitantly tapped out a text message.

 

_The elderly woman was murdered. SH_

 

One, two, three minutes passed.

 

_What elderly woman? GL_

_The one that committed suicide in her home. She didn’t take her own life. SH_

_And you gathered this from where exactly? GL_

_The newspaper article. Her son’s murdered her for the insurance money. SH_

_You haven’t even seen the body. GL_

_Check on the insurance policy. You will find I am correct. SH_

Five, ten, fifteen minutes.

 

_Good call. We’re bringing him in for questioning. GL_

_Good. SH_

_What are you doing today? Busy? GL_

_Depends on the case. SH_

_Six teenage boys, bound at the wrists, drowned in a backyard swimming pool. No one saw a thing. Want to come take a look? GL_

_Text me the address. Twenty minutes. SH_

Eighteen minutes later, Sherlock’s cab pulled up outside a fairly nondescript two-story house that was painted a relatively drab yellow. In fact, it was so unremarkable that he was thoroughly convinced Lestrade had given him the wrong address. He sent the cab on its way and double-checked his texts - no, this was definitely the address. No squad cars, no crime scene tape, nothing. His thoughts were interrupted by a familiar voice.

 

“Sherlock!” Lestrade approached him from across the street, dressed down in a t-shirt and jeans. He looked odd out of his usual suit and tie. “I’m glad you came.”

 

“Where on earth are we? And why aren’t you properly dressed? Where is my crime scene?”

 

“That was an old case, Sherlock. We solved it two years ago. You didn’t think I’d actually let you onto a crime scene, did you?”

 

_Oh. Of course. Should have seen that one coming - no wonder Mycroft was so keen on my contacting him._ “This is hardly a good way to get me to speak with you, Lestrade.”

 

“What else was I supposed to do? You ignored Molly’s phone calls, you never showed up to dinner, and you haven’t answered my texts.” He folded his arms. “Look. I know you and John had a row. We just wanted to talk to you about it.”

 

“It’s not any of your business.”

 

“Damn right it’s not, but because we care, we’re making it our business. You can’t just hide away in Mycroft’s house while life goes on.”

 

“So what do you propose I do? John asked me to leave. I’ll not be intruding on his life anymore.”

 

“You two need to have a proper sit down and talk things out. Maybe it won’t get resolved, or maybe it will. You won’t know until you try.”

 

“I don’t have to listen to this.” Sherlock turned and began walking down the street in the direction his cab had went.

 

“Sherlock Holmes!” Lestrade demanded. Sherlock stopped, but didn’t turn around. “I have stuck with you through addiction and rehab, I have defended you to my own police force, and I am not about to give up on you now. Don’t do this to yourself. John changed your life, we all saw it, and you can’t just pretend he’s not important. We’re not going to let you walk out of his life.”

 

“This doesn’t concern you!”

 

“Listen to me, Sherlock. Please. I know where you’re going, and this path doesn’t end well for anyone.”

 

Lestrade was met with nothing more than the sound of Sherlock’s shoes touching down on the pavement.

 

* * *

 

Eleven days.

 

There was a box beneath Sherlock’s old bed, a plain wooden box with a simple gold clasp. It had probably been someone’s jewelry box at some point in time. He, however, had elected to keep syringes and vials tucked in it, safely away from the prying eyes of his mother, Mycroft, and whoever else was around. He’d kept them here during his uni days, for the long weekends and holidays when he was forced to come home for “family time”. The vials were long since empty and the syringes were rusted from disuse, but that didn’t keep his mind from formulating the fastest way to get his hands on new supplies.

 

Two days after he’d found the box, it had mysteriously disappeared. Mycroft, no doubt. If there was one thing Mycroft took seriously, it was his brother’s drug addiction. In some ways, he’d saved Sherlock’s life. Not that Sherlock would ever be willing to own up to it.

 

He decided to drop by the hospital and pay a visit to Molly. After his discussion with Lestrade, he’d reconsidered his methods. True: when he was upset, he tended to withdraw from everyone. True: John had changed his life (and saved it, in more ways than one). False: He was not walking out on John. He’d been asked to leave and he had complied. God, Lestrade made them sound like jilted lovers. But regardless of Lestrade’s opinions, he’d succeeded in guilting Sherlock into saying hello to Molly after ignoring her for the better part of a week.

 

He made it as far as the lift in the front lobby. John was standing at the check-in desk, talking with the receptionist. He froze, his hand halfway to the buttons for the lift. A knot formed in his stomach, and he instinctively turned his back so John would not see his face. On second that, maybe he would just text Molly an apology. That meant he wouldn’t have to listen to her ramble on for twenty minutes, anyway. He turned up his coat collar around his face and made straight for the doors, casting one last glance at John over his shoulder.

 

John turned his head at just the right time. For a fraction of a second, they held each other’s stares. The air rushed out of the room, time stopped, and Sherlock could hear his own heartbeat in his ears.

 

The knot tightened and time returned to its normal flow. Sherlock returned his gaze to the world outside the hospital and strode out into the harsh sunlight.

 

* * *

 

Fourteen days.

 

After a day of sneaking around one of Lestrade’s crime scenes (he still wouldn’t allow Sherlock anywhere near them - something about legalities and upsetting the rest of Scotland Yard), the detective returned home to find Mycroft seated on a chair in the living room. The elder Holmes brother had made tea for two and was sitting back in his chair, feet flat, knees slightly apart, arms spread. No doubt something he’d read in a psychology textbook about appearing “open” and “willing to talk” - this wasn’t the first time Sherlock had seen that particular pose.

 

“Before you ask, I know you’ve taken my old syringes, no I’m not using again, yes I can prove it.” He unbuttoned one cuff and began rolling up his sleeve, fully expecting Mycroft to check for fresh injection marks.

 

“There’s no need for that, Sherlock. I know you’ve been behaving yourself. Please, sit down.” Mycroft gestured to the chair across from him. Sherlock plopped down into the chair without a word. “You have correctly identified this as an intervention, but it has nothing to do with your fondness for recreational narcotics.”

 

“Then what do you want?”

 

“I want to talk about John.”

 

Sherlock immediately stood. “We are not having this conversation.”

 

“Yes we are. Now sit back down.” Mycroft’s voice was unusually harsh, and Sherlock did as he was told. “You have been hiding here like a frightened rabbit in a hole for two weeks, Sherlock. This has to stop.”

 

“It’s hardly your concern.”

 

“You are living in my house, eating my food, drinking my tea, and using my electricity. That makes it my concern.” Mycroft picked up his cup from the coffee table, took a sip, and set it back down. “I am concerned for your well being. Despite our differences, we are family.”

 

“Perhaps I should have committed suicide sooner, if this is how you’re choosing to react.”

 

“Your commentary is unnecessary. We were not the only ones that grieved, Sherlock. You lost friends that day, unable to contact them for the better part of three years. Three years spent chasing criminals, nearly getting yourself killed, all under some misguided notion of justice and protection. Good intentions, certainly, but you used it as a proxy to channel your focus elsewhere. That much time without close human contact isn’t healthy. Grief requires time and emotions, both of which you have little to spare.”

 

“I thought caring wasn’t an advantage.”

 

“It isn’t. Caring causes people to sit by their loved one’s bedside in the hospital long after hope is gone, or to hold on to the possessions of one who’s passed on.” Mycroft arched an eyebrow. “Dr. Watson is a prime example. What is it you used to be so fond of saying, about how love is a vicious motivator?”

 

Sherlock remained quiet. He rubbed small circles into the arm of the chair with his fingers, pondering Mycroft’s words. What the hell was he implying?

 

Mycroft continued. “The last time we had a talk like this, it was to prevent you from destroying yourself with illegal substances. This time, I fear you may destroy yourself with your own thoughts. Deny it all you like, but the bond between you and Dr. Watson has changed you. Quite for the better, I might add. Don’t become your own undoing, Sherlock.”

 

Mycroft stood and retrieved his teacup from the table. “Your tea is going cold.” He walked away, presumably towards the kitchen, leaving Sherlock alone to think.

 

When did Mycroft become so sentimental? This was new. Or was it really? After all, Mycroft had been very sentimental when they were growing up. Sherlock recalled a few distinct memories of their childhood: crawling into Mycroft’s bed because of a nightmare, having his big brother check for monsters in the closet, and reading stories during thunderstorms so he wouldn’t be scared. As they’d drifted apart and Sherlock began his slow spiral into darkness and addiction, he’d assumed Mycroft had ceased caring. Perhaps he was wrong.

 

And then there was the issue of John. If the detective had to wager a guess, he’d say that the good doctor had probably agonized over their argument for the first two (maybe three) days, then spent the next day (two at the most, but one was much more likely) rationalizing to himself why he was justified in throwing Sherlock out and why he shouldn’t feel guilty. The rest of the week was spent throwing himself into other activities, trying his best not to think about it. By the start of the second week, life would have returned to normal.

 

That was an apt description of Sherlock’s own life though, wasn’t it? Days spent in bed, not bothering to put in the effort to get up and dressed. Justification about staying out of John’s life. Actively avoiding those who wanted to talk sense into him, stalking crime scenes, solving murders in newspapers, anything he could do to avoid thoughts of John. Even now, as he processed all this information, he felt the knot in his stomach returning, along with a lump in his throat. He missed John.

 

Oh.

 

_I miss John._

 

So strange to put the feeling into words. Was that what he had felt when he’d seen John at the hospital a few days ago? Perhaps. But what could he do about it? Ring him and beg to be taken back like a husband caught cheating? Swear he’d never do it again if only he was given a second chance? No. It was demeaning to him and unfair to John. The doctor had drawn his line in the sand, and Sherlock wasn’t going to cross it.

 

Two thoughts crossed his mind.

_I need a drink._

_Maybe Angelo will be happy to see me._


	8. The Good Doctor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter John Watson and the dilemma of the heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it wasn't obvious, Misty is working on this project again- the last chapter is all hers. Isn't she great? -feardubh

For a moment John stood in stunned silence, trying not to comprehend the look in Sherlock’s eyes; he’d never seen them so dead, except- no, he wasn’t going to think about that- not the bright scarlet dripping over pale skin and matting the dark curls. Not those dead blue eyes. He stood in the doorway to the living room for a long while as the quiet slowly crept into the flat and increasing to a near deafening volume. It hissed and shrank into the shadows as he moved again, but his body was as stiff and slow as a clockwork machine about to wind down, so it only grumbled and curled in the corners, in the darkness beneath the couch. Its eyes glowed as it waited.

He hadn’t expected him to leave, not really. This was Sherlock- stubborn to a fault, and more than a little narcissistic. It was that ego that made it so strange to see him walk out the door without a fuss, but John figured he’d be back. Maybe. He didn’t even have a spare change of clothes and probably no more than a bit of walking cash on his person, if even that. He didn’t have a place to go- it wasn’t like he would swallow his pride enough to ask anyone for help.

John wandered through the living room and to the kitchen, and he stood amongst the the remnants of the morning’s antics and a few half-unpacked boxes. Distantly he could hear Mrs Hudson moving about, talking to herself, but he paid her no mind and she didn’t come up, though she must have heard their raised voices. Some time passed before he realized he had nothing to do in the kitchen and he moved back to the stairs in somewhat of a daze.

The human mind is a very complex and interesting machine; it has ways of protecting itself that the conscious sections don’t always pick up on, and one of those methods is by applying a careful numbness to the hurt, like pulling a blanket about oneself against the cold. It was instinctual. Hands automatically pull away from hot stoves, and the mind curls up on itself to escape the sharpness of emotion until everything is covered in a nice, thick fog of slow confused shock. It ices the sting as best it can.

Novacaine is only the first step. When a wound is too ragged for the mind to solve with cloying numbness it will walk to the next door, the door of sleep. Sleep is safe. It is a break in the world, and it gives one a period to move from the trauma by knocking out a few hours of the real world. Time doesn’t really heal the wounds, it just gives the mind space to heal.

Luckily sleep was enough for John; he retreated up the stairs and pulled himself into the safety of the smell of clean cotton sheets. Sleep blew into the room and cradled him gently as it soothed his mind with a motherly touch.

The rain still came in gentle waves all through Tuesday morning; John woke early and well rested- too early, in fact, as when he opened his eyes his room was still clouded with the grey-violet shadow of the sky before dawn. Breakfast was slow, but even after he’d finished his meal and spent more than a few moments lost in thought he still had time to putter about the flat in an attempt to feel busy with something before it became an acceptable hour to arrive at St Barts.

He buzzed in to the imposing building, nodded to Sarah, and sat down at his desk. He waited.

As he waited, thoughts began to trickle into his mind like birds to a field. Some settled, some landed and fluttered away, and others swung in long, lazy loops without touching down at all.

Was I too harsh on him? But no, he knew Sherlock had to get it into his head that there wasn’t always going to be someone to play nanny and pick up after him. Adults didn’t set fire to the kitchen with their chemistry sets. That just wasn’t how it worked. People left behind that kind of mindset as they grew and understood responsibility.

When the hour struck he moved from his desk and began his rounds about the hospital. John had a patient or two scheduled for later in the day- routine check ups and the like- but until then all that required the doctor's attention was the handful of people on his hall that he needed to visit.

The first was a man who'd been a resident the entire duration of his time at the hospital. One James Feske, forty eight years old, married to a woman John had never met and the father of a child who couldn't be bothered to visit his father as he wasted away in a narrow bed. No love lost there. A quiet, steady beeping sounded, accompanied by the hiss of iron lungs: Feske was in a coma, as he had been since a tour bus totaled his car. John checked his vitals, murmured a soft wellwish, and ducked out of the room.

The next was a small girl who was only a resident until she was deemed fully recovered from her surgery. Anna, a young, bright thing just shy of her nineth birthday.

"I see you're at the telly already," he said as he entered her room. She pulled her eyes from the screen long enough to grin impishly at him iver her breakfast tray before returning to the mindless cartoon.

She seemed alright. Next.

The room down the hall was a mother and her newborn, a sickly infant delivered two days ago. They were sleeping.

A man named Rick Taylors looked up from his half eaten cereal. They'd thought he'd had Lupis- turned out he had some strange infection from a visit to Brazil that in turn caused a slew of problems. That whole room reeked of some tv medic drama.

A child slumbered peacefully in the grasp of sedatives. A woman with cloudy grey hair coughed, her beeping monitor betraying her weak heart.

It struck John suddenly how out of balance he was. He spent his days with the ill and the dying. His only friends worked in a morgue or with criminals, and his flatmate was a man so untouchable that he'd hunted London's demons since he was who knows how young. It was a rather depressing affair.

John saved the room at the end for last, knowing it would probably take most of his time. Gabriel Beningno was a cancer patient who'd come in only a few months after Sherlock's departure, and though doctors weren't allowed to pick favorites, if John was honest with himself he would say Gabriel was his.

He was an artist, almost stereotypically sensitive, and if circumstances were different he would have gotten far in the world with his clever mind and polite mannerisms. Gabriel befriended John quickly- after all, misery brings people together almost as easily as joy.

Gabriel smiled affectionately as John entered his room, his dark fingers absently tracing figures on a small bound book in his lap. His tray was mostly cleared, and the doctor reached for it- a question. He nodded, and John moved it to the counter running along the wall before pulling the visitor's chair to his bedside and taking a seat.

"Good morning, Mr. Beningno," greeted John. "How are you feeling?"

"Pretty good, pretty good." Gabriel bobbed his head, his words tinted with the slightest hint of a light, gentle accent. Something tropical, almost. Exotic. "I think Mrs Rhyn woke me up again last night. I must be a light sleeper."

He was too kind- she was just a poor nurse. Almost as bad as Chuck, a boy too young for the job to begin with. They let him go last week after a mixup that could have killed one of their patients.

Gabriel stilled his hands and watched John curiously with dark eyes. "How are you, Dr Watson? You look odd today, maybe too much purple 'bout the eyes. A bit tired, perhaps?"

John nodded. "I suppose I am."

A light twinkled in his eyes, a knowing glimmer that expected an explanation, which John gave after some prompting. As he spoke, Gabriel opened his sketchbook and began drawing, his fingers moving with slow, deliberate movements. The whole of it came out in a rush as a starling took flight across a sky of crisp white paper. Gabriel knew most of the story until the events of that weekend, and he listened carefully through the latest updates as he flecked feathers and soft clouds.

"...and so I asked him to leave."

"And he left?"

"Yeah. Without a fuss, really." John sighed as one hand drifted towards his leg. A silence grew between them, broken only by the quiet scratching of pencils and the distant buzz of equipment. Somewhere below, a woman was having a nasty case of pneumonia cured by the steady drip of an IV. A man was having his liver replaced by one less soaked in beer and sorrow. A doctor was telling her patient's family that he hadn't made it.

Gabriel turned a page and considered it thoughtfully before ending the pause. "And? You're angry, confused, happy?"

"Definitely confused..." He trailed off again. Shapes came to life on the paper, long curving arches and soft bristly lines. "I honestly don't know how I feel about it all." John fixed Gabriel with a piercing stare. "I really shouldn't be telling you all this- really unprofessional, I'm sorry."

Gabriel snorted. John's mouth quirked into a half-smile. He recognized his own face on the sketch pad; the man's quick hands working to preserve the grin. "Continue,"

"Well, I dunno." It was strange to try and shove it out; he didn't have the right words, not yet. At least he tried to talk about it though, right? Unlike some- "I guess I just wasn't ready for it all. I didn't expect him to be alive, and then he was..."

"You always put a lot of stock in Mr. Holmes." Gabriel nodded sympathetically. "Even so, it must have been jarring. Everyone hopes beyond hope that the dead will return, but they are safe with the knowledge that they won't."

John paused again, watching his own eyes peer out, shadowed with a smudge of charcoal.

"Do you want to know what I think?"

"Of course."

Gabriel straightened. His fingers stilled.

"You were a very different man when I met you, Dr. Watson. You were very tired. This work at the surgery- you were diligent, yes, but you lacked heart. Conviction." Gabriel closed his book and watched John, his gaze steady and matter-of-fact. "Today there is a difference, a change in you."

John opened his mouth to interrupt, but Gabriel quieted him with a raised hand. He fidgeted in the chair.

"The two of you were in a rough spot and you both found what you needed in each other, and you have a very special bond," explained Gabriel firmly. "The two of you have a very special friendship, and you need him."

"That I do," John frowned. "But he's always off on his own- he doesn't need me, he never has. So he's off galavanting through London like some sort of vigilante. He's probably out there now. And I'm stuck either chasing after him without a clue as to what he's doing or waiting at the flat twiddling my thumbs wondering whether he'll come home or not."

"Mr. Holmes needs you," Gabriel insisted softly with a slight shake of his head. "He doesn't have many friends, Dr. Watson. Just one; you. Why else would he come back?"

"Because I asked him to. It wasn't of his own volition-"

"I think it's more than that. I think he cares, because even if he didn't want to return, he did so anyway. He opened up this big raw wound because you asked him to. What does that say of your worth to him?"

John lapsed into thought as Gabriel fell silent. He wasn't needed. He'd always been an accessory. Filling in for the skull.

A nurse came in- Mrs. Rhyn, a good natured woman in her forties. She shooed John from the room to ready Gabriel for a session, and he was left to wander in the direction of his office, his mind churning.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson was quite sympathetic about the entire situation; she expressed that she missed Sherlock and worried about them both, but would support whatever decision they made. John got the sense that she thought it all to be a bit overplayed and assumed Sherlock would be back within the end of the month.

She did not, on the other hand, accept the mess of boxes and debris laying about the flat, and scolded John accordingly, insisting "This is a living space, not a storage room."

He nodded and assured her that he'd take care of it, but when he sat down to sort through the mess he realized that what he did with it all depended on what he decided to do with Sherlock; it made no sense to pack it all up if the detective was to return to the flat, and conversely he couldn't leave it all out if he was to be living alone.

The doctor did quickly dispose of the gently decomposing set of toes in the refrigerator. Wasn't there some kind of social convention that limited how soon you could start filling a flat with dead things? But no, there wasn't, and in any case Sherlock would have just seen such constraints as more rules to break.

The kitchen still smelled of smoke.

* * *

It was Friday- five days and counting. He’d barely stepped to the dark door of 221B before something in his jacket started buzzing- with a sigh, John dug out his mobile and looked at the screen.

**[Incoming call: Mycroft Holmes]**

The doctor glanced around warily; he half expected to see a slick black car pull up at the curb and a friendly lady to look up from her phone and invite him in.

**[Accept]**

“Hello?”

Mycroft’s voice crackled over the line. It was filled with concern.

“...So he did go to you. I wondered about that.” He gazed about the street once more before unlocking the door to the flat and slowly climbing the stairs. Apparently Sherlock hadn’t told him anything about their argument. “We, uh, had a bit of a row.”

He tried to imagine Sherlock in that big, posh house, all by himself with Mycroft. It was more of a mansion, really, far bigger than two people could even begin to fill by themselves and John knew he would keep to his room. It must be... lonely. It seemed Sherlock wasn’t speaking. “Well, he does that. He did that all the time when we were living together- he did it with Adler, you remember.”

Adler had been strange. She was perhaps the only woman Sherlock had seemed even remotely interested in, but from what he’d been told in the end it seemed Sherlock had exploited her too.

“Honestly Mycroft, you know him as well as I do.”

John looked around the living room. It was still in a state of disarray with scattered boxes and files stacked haphazardly around the chairs. Most of the chemical supplies had been moved to the kitchen, where vague residue from that whole fiasco- a shard of glass, a strange smell- were still noticeable. _He’s literally not said a word._

“Well, I would imagine his pride is a bit wounded; I asked him to leave. The flat. As I’m sure you know.” Mycroft didn’t seem like he would take allow Sherlock some time to figure things out; he was either very worried, or under some sort of deadline. John squashed the idea of making some snide comment about the eldest Holmes’ life, but _how’s the diet_ wasn’t really his thing. “We weren’t getting along so well, you know how he is. Give him something to do.”

_I don’t think he’s stable. Mycroft’s voice picked up a low tone John recognized as worry. “No. I don’t think that’s a good idea right now, Mycroft, for either of us. We tried to jump back into our old lives to early, and we probably need some time to get used to this. It’s all... new.” Sherlock, unstable? Childish, perhaps, and prone to tantrums, but John wouldn’t label him unstable._

“He just needs time.” Definitely not into the idea of letting them sort out their difficulties on their own; Mycroft seemed to think that the best thing to do was force them together. But that was the thing, wasn’t it? John didn’t know if he could go back to a life with the detective. Sure, he was glad to know he was alive, but... Well, people just didn’t get up out of their graves and walk back into old lives. At least not ordinary people.

The conversation veered away from Sherlock’s wellbeing and turned to John’s.

He couldn’t bite back the rather bitter words that jumped to his tongue. “I dunno Mycroft, how would you be feeling if your flatmate suddenly came back from the dead?”

There was a rather long pause on the other end. “Sorry. I’m fine.”

 _I’ll keep you updated._ “Right. Thanks.”

There was a click and the line went dead. With another soft sigh, John sank into his chair, flipping his phone idly between his fingers. He didn’t use his phone very much- not like he had that many people to talk to. He’d been given a lot of space as the grieving widow.

**[MESSAGES: Sherlock Holmes]**

**[SAVED:]** _I miss you too. SH_

Three years. Thirteen little characters on the screen, demanding his attention.

John dropped the phone into his lap and scrubbed his face tiredly with one hand.

* * *

Nine days. Not that he'd been keeping track. He just knew.

It took three days for John to begin truly rationalizing the whole ordeal to himself, and five for Mycroft to begin butting in. A week and he'd stopped pretending he was going to reach a satisfying conclusion any time soon.

On the nineth day Lestrade made his thoughts known.

_He came by today. Absolutely furious. GL_

He. John didn't even have to ask. Sherlock, of course.

A few minutes passed.

_John, you're on your lunch hour. GL_

_I'm not his keeper. JW_

He could practically hear the man rolling his eyes.

_Solved a murder, though a news article. Apparently that elderly woman was killed for money. GL_

John had seen the story in question- he'd wondered what Sherlock had thought.

_How is he? What's he up to? JW_

_I'm not the go-between for your little domestic. You two need to talk. GL_

_And I'm going to ask you to stay out of my business. JW_

John found himself feeling bitterly like what he imagined the detective to feel when faced with socialization. Of course, Lestrade had as much a claim to Sherlock as Mycroft did, and his concern was reasonable, but he was still a bit irked at the intrusion.

_This is my business, John. I'm your friend. Both of you are spiraling dangerously out of control. The last time I had to intervene on this level, he was killing himself. Slowly. Deliberately. GL_

How dramatic. How very like Sherlock.

_Trust me, I don't deal with this sort of emotional mess for fun, and Sherlock's behaving like a wounded beast. He's volatile. I need you to be the mature one here and reach out to him; I doubt he'll take the help of anyone else. GL_

Always the mature one, always him. Was he the only one who was supposed to be responsible?

_I'll do my best. JW_

There. That was nice, noncommittal- no time constraint.

John's phone made a trill as he powered it down, and it would stay off for almost another week.

* * *

He felt odd by sitting by himself in the flat, more so than the other nights spent alone since the argument. It wasn't that the space was too big for him but rather it was incomplete; he wrote it off as something else. Rattling in the vents or something.

In truth, it was missing something vital. It lacked a certain energy, even, graceful footsteps, the echos of that violin...

Dammit.

Everything seemed to bring him back to the same point, in a glaring, painfully obvious way. It would follow that John had no other option, but they'd tried that, hadn't they?

With a sigh, John rose and set his hands on his hips as he surveyed the living room. He really did need to do something about the mess; it was getting out of hand and he was tired of stepping over Sherlock's things.

Bins were arranged in a haphazard city of leaning skyscrapers. Flasks gleamed through their wrappers in the glow of the streetlight, and files of old cases say collecting dust in the skittering shadows. John began with the box at his feet, and began pulling out glassware protected by neat trimmings of newspaper yellowed from the three years' sentence to the damp flat below. Elections, editorials, economics all written out in emotionless Times New Roman. Woman kills family of five: police stumped in search for killer's whereabouts. He paused over the headline, wondering what Sherlock would have thought of it.

Did he help catch the culprit?

John shook himself and turned his mind back to his task as a row of uneven glassware formed beside him.

He was sitting amid a small sea of Sherlock's tools and was halfway through his fourth box- this one containing an extensive collection of belladonna samples- when he remembered the futility of unpacking the belongings of a man who wasn't living there, and then spent the better part of the next hour packing it all up again.

But that led to the decision- the finality- of living by himself. Of making this permanent and moving all of the bins and the memories and the future into the mildewy flat downstairs and leaving it all to rot.

That felt unfair.

On the same note, he was tired of having to be the responsible one, and he was sick of putting up with Sherlock. Hell, the detective apparently did nothing more than sulk during their time apart, and it was tediously taxing to try to reason with him.

Apart from the temperamental nature of his maybe ex-flatmate, John did have some serious issues with some of his habits. Sherlock didn't take care of himself; he scorned sleep almost as vehemently as he did food, and then he'd dash about the city as if he had some death wish, and that didn't even touch the addictions.

But he was _special._

Sherlock Holmes was an event in and of himself with his strange tendencies and dramatic flair. He was a brilliant man, and a child, and he had no notion of self-preservation, and here John was being sentimental- what would he say to that? But he missed him, the arse.

Oh.

_Oh._

"Bloody hell," John growled.

He needed to be out; his coat was hanging by the door, and he quickly shrugged it on. A walk would do.

Whether by fate or chance his wandering brought the doctor to a familiar district.

The first case.

Here a cab stopped with a tanned Californian in the backseat. Here he had jumped a rickety balcony, following the swoosh of a greatcoat.

John stood before Angelo's for a moment as his memories played out until he decided to enter the warm restaurant. It was as good a place as any to sort himself out.


	9. Dancing Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angelo's tends to be a place where things happen. Tonight shouldn't be any different.

When Sherlock arrived at the familiar restaurant, he discovered that it wasn’t so familiar after all. New flooring had been installed, the walls redecorated, and he didn’t recognize any of the staff. Angelo had gone home for the night, which was just as well - he really wasn’t in the mood to cause a ruckus, and he quietly settled into a table in the corner. He ignored the menu and opted for a brandy on the rocks. He sipped his drink and examined the couple sitting across from him. A pretty young lady with short, curly red hair, but eyes beyond her years. Her companion a few years older, his brown hair cut short, tanned skin, and callouses on his fingers, presumably from repeated pulling back of a bowstring. The two did not talk, but merely soaked in the presence of the other. Both appeared worn, weary, and utterly uninterested in conversation, which was about how Sherlock felt at the moment. He finished his brandy, ordered another, and became absorbed in watching the hairline fractures form in the ice cubes that were floating in his drink.

John paused before the restaurant's entrance, rethinking his change of scenery for a moment as a quiet sense of foreboding passed over him. He shrugged it off and pulled open the door. The warmer air inside darted out to meet him, tugging him in with friendly fingers, and John shook the dregs of the damp cold off as he stepped inside. A quick glance showed that Angelo was out as he expected, and that the cafe was rather quiet that night. A couple by one wall seemed lost in a more intimate moment, one hidden in knowing glances and familiar companionship. There was something about them he recognized; they were soldiers. A man at the bar stared blankly at the muted telly, his tanned fingers betraying his sorry marriage. The only other patron was a man in the corner- oh. John sighed and slowed, considering turning around and leaving. After what happened last time he and Sherlock crossed paths, he really wasn't looking forward to another cold stare down.

The bell above the front door chimed, politely announcing the entry of another customer. Sherlock lifted his eyes to size up the new disturbance in the room. Oh. John was here. Of course he was. Probably waxing nostalgic. He didn’t lift his head, but watched through dark eyelashes as John surveyed the room and finally rested his gaze on Sherlock’s table. So this was how it was going to happen. What was even considered appropriate etiquette in a situation like this? Should he pretend he hadn’t seen John? Invite him over to the table? Stare him into submission? He’d just made eye contact with the man, so that eliminated the first option. He hesitated, then offered a neutral head nod of acknowledgment. How John chose to interpret it was up to his own discretion.

In that moment John decided that if he could take every awkward encounter with an ex-girlfriend and roll them into one, he'd rather experience that mess of embarrassment then run head on into this train wreck, but he only allowed himself one heartbeat's pause before he dipped his head in return and moved to Sherlock's table. The doctor eyed the glass at his hand as he sat, feeling oddly bothered by the drink. He settled, and they locked eyes; the moment dragged. The red haired woman flicked her wrist. A bead of condensation slid down the glass. After another moment passed John broke the connection and shifted his gaze down to his hands as they twisted in his lap. Might as well get things going. He nodded again to Sherlock, and began in the most non confrontational voice he could manage: "Hello." Just one word. Open ended. Easy.

"Hello," Sherlock echoed, studying John as he sat down. The doctor hadn't slept well in several days. Been out for a walk, probably to clear his mind after wrestling with his conscience. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson had said something to him. Sherlock finished the last swallow of brandy in his glass and set it down on the table, running the tips of his fingers round the rim of the glass. Moisture gathered on his fingertips, and he pursed his lips. What would he say? Did he even want to talk? Not particularly. After an uncomfortably long silence, he cleared his throat and asked, "Fancy a drink?”

Did he? John wasn't really one to dabble in alcohol, but then again this would undoubtedly be a rough conversation if the wires of tension buzzing in the room were anything to go by. The doctor merely dipped his head in agreement and flagged the man behind the counter as he called off a drink. The bartender filled a glass quickly with a syrupy gold scotch and he moved to take it before returning to Sherlock. They waited in a discordant quiet until at last he cleared his throat, took a long draught, and sighed. "We've got to talk about this, Sherlock." The detective's fingers clenched. "It'll be better on us if we do- and it seems Lestrade and Mycroft are very keen on us having a sit down. Talking is... Talking's good." John nodded firmly to himself and his eyes flicked to Sherlock's.

“And you always take advice from Lestrade and Mycroft,” Sherlock murmured. He steepled his fingers beneath his chin and stared evenly at John. His facial expression was easy enough to read - he was trying to convince himself that talking was the right thing to do. He knew it was, of course, but he certainly wasn’t thrilled about having this conversation. To be frank, neither was Sherlock. He arched his eyebrows. “Well? Go on, then.”

John visited his drink again- it was seeming more and more like a good idea to just down the glass and call for another- and pulled his lower lip between his teeth as he tested words on his tongue. "Not that I always listen to them, nor do you, I might add," he started pointedly. "But they're right about this, and I for one think that we have some discussing to do. Your things are still at the flat, and we have to work out our arrangements here." The bell at the door sounded and John looked up briefly to see a slouching, snow-haired teenager enter and take a seat near the window. He turned back to Sherlock. "What conclusions did you reach during your stay with your brother?"

“That Mycroft has, by some miracle, finally managed to lose a stone, give or take, and that Lestrade is far too invested in other people’s business. Next.” Why did John want to talk about “arrangements” and Sherlock’s things at the flat? Two weeks alone and that’s all he’d thought about? Well, that could count as a blessing, then. At least he hadn’t spent all that time planning how to dispose of Sherlock’s body once he was through with him. The detective’s eyes flickered to the teenager near the window and the couple seated across from them. All vastly more interesting than this conversation John was interested in having.

John resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Common, that annoyance. Of course Sherlock would take the opportunity to avoid the real topic by stating erroneous observations, and they both knew the game he was playing as he did so. "You know what I meant by that, and I'd appreciate it if you didn't hedge with that stuff- neither of us care." A note of accusation rose in his voice, and John broke off and gazed once more about the cafe as he settled his thoughts. "Next. Well." This was more difficult. "That depends on what you wish to do about our living situation, and please; this is important."

“My thoughts on the matter are irrelevant. You asked me to leave, and I did so. I shall come and collect my things as soon as you require.” The boy at the window wasn’t wearing shoes. How odd. “I’ll return my key to Mrs. Hudson and be done with it.” That’s all there was to it, wasn’t it? Talking, so much talking. All John ever wanted to do was talk.

Wasn't the big revelation of their separation that it would be better otherwise? Perhaps the secretive didn't share his epiphany. Well. "Don't bother with that," said John boldly, raising his chin and catching Sherlock's gaze. His eyes were firm. "Come back to the flat. Lord knows you have a hellish amount of bin to sort through; I don't know enough about your organization to do it properly myself."

Sherlock frowned. He must have misunderstood. John wanted him to come home? That didn’t make the slightest bit of sense. He lowered his hands into his lap. “What?” he asked. “I thought - I mean, I assumed things were . . . better . . . if I was out of the picture.” He drummed the fingers of his right hand on the back of his left. “I . . . I don’t wish to cause any more trouble for you, John.”

For someone so flamboyantly intelligent you are remarkably thick. John shook his head once. "Three years out of the picture didn't do either of us any good, wouldn't you say?" His hand shifted on his drink, fingertips drifting to the top as if it were a shot glass as he lifted it and swirled the golden liquid. It returned to the tabletop with a clink. "What I mean is- everyone seems to think that we're being foolish to ignore each other, and I know it's not really up to them. But." John paused as the newcomer tapped once loudly on the window. Outside, the whether was gradually turning a bit nasty; while it had been cold and more than a little damp on his walk over, now a wind had picked up. It was sleeting. "But I came to my own conclusions, and I think I agree. Of course, it's all up to you-" As it always seems to be. "I understand if you don't want to move back in. And if you did there are some rules I'd like to discuss."

"STOP THIS!" Sherlock slammed his fist on the table, causing their glasses and the silverware to rattle. The restaurant grew quiet and everyone turned to look. The redheaded woman smoothly reached for her steak knife and wrapped her fingers around the handle, while the barefooted boy turned his attention from the window and fixed Sherlock with an icy-yet-curious stare. The detective lowered his voice before he spoke again. "Do not patronize me, John. Always trying to do what you think is expected of you, trying to please others. It's utterly spineless. If you want me to go, then say the word and I shall disappear into the streets of London. Likewise, if you wish me to stay, then I will follow you back to Baker Street without a moment's delay. But for god's sake, John, use your own brain to make your own decisions." He took a deep breath and blew it out through his nose, debating on whether or not to order another drink.

The doctor glanced around the room again, meeting the woman's eyes- hard, probing. He moved on to her partner, and then the boy before turning back to Sherlock where he then paused, noting the tightened jaw, the narrowed eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sherlock, I was merely trying to ask you what you wanted to do. I stated my opinion- I want you to come back to the flat." Background noise gradually began to filter back into the restaurant, and John sighed, flinging the last of his drink back and furrowing his brow at the burn. "If I'm spineless, for trying not to cause a fuss," he asked in low tones, "how are you any different when our living arrangements are apparently contingent on my decision?"

Two glasses of brandy were finally beginning to take their effects, and Sherlock spoke before thinking about his words. “Because I make bad decisions!” he blurted out, clenching his hand into a fist before slowly stretching out his fingers again. “I make rash decisions, take calculated risks, all based on mathematics and probability and the odds of coming out alive. Coming out alive and coming out unscathed are two very different things, John, and you certainly didn’t come out unscathed after three years.” He picked up speed as he talked, his words nearly slurring together. “My decisions always affect me. It’s why I’m so good at what I do. I don’t have to worry about inflicting the repercussions of my decisions onto others, so I can throw myself in front of buses or off buildings without thinking twice about it, but for whatever ungodly reason, you insist on remaining a part of my life, which means the consequences of my actions now affect you as well. I can’t make any more decisions, John, as it will merely cause unjust pain and suffering on your behalf.” The detective clamped his mouth shut, caught the eye of their waiter, and twisted his hand in a lazy circle, indicating another drink. At this rate, he might need two more.

The server came round again with another drink, sweeping away the used glasses and holding out one hand to the doctor, a question. John waved him away with a declination and a thanks and wondered idly how much Sherlock'd had before he'd arrived as he eyed the new glass. "You do make bad decisions, very bad decisions. There was that time with the vender-" He broke off and met the detective's eyes. They were the battlefield of warring emotions; an earnestness he rarely saw clashed with the slipping mask of indifference he so often wore. "We both know that, and I really must say that I am concerned for your safety. I'm sure you know that." John's voice was even, gentle, and very serious. "But I would rather have you at the flat where I can keep an eye on you. I've felt for some time that you isolate yourself for more than to avoid idiocy, but no man is an island, Sherlock. You could use help." John then paused, adjusting the silverware laid on the tabletop and dabbing the corner of his napkin at the ring of water where his glass had sat. "Besides- whether or not I throw myself in along with you is my choice. I have my share of the consequences."

Sherlock rimmed his glass with his fingertips, reconsidering the drink as he contemplated John’s words. That much was true - despite the detective’s continued love of endangering his own life and the lives of those in the near vicinity, John followed him willingly. Sherlock had quite literally dragged him into numerous life-threatening situations, but John always had the option of leaving afterwards. It was a decision he had opted out of time and time again. Perhaps it was the alcohol, but there was a warmth blooming in Sherlock’s chest at the affection and concern that John continued to show him, in spite of (or perhaps because of) his reckless nature. He gave a slight nod in acknowledgment of John’s words before clearing his throat. “I fear Mycroft will throw me out on the street if I stay with him one night longer,” he said quietly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I could use a place to sleep, if you could spare the room.”

John gave him a very pointed stare that screamed are you fucking serious, and he flattened the urge to strangle the man; the smugness on his face was ridiculous. "What? Of course we have room, we've got two bedrooms. I haven't set it afire." It was his turn to grin then, and he did so quite cheekily- they both heard the unspoken, half-joking yet. Then he leaned forward slightly and placed both hands flat on the table as a more ironically sober tone took to his voice. "From what Mycroft always said, I'd imagine he thought living with you as a child was quite hellish; he always asked about you when we lived together. Sure you know that. Was it the dinners then? Or some sort of childhood feud?" John lapsed back into silence and sat back in his chair, one hand dropping to cover his thigh and the half-forgotten ache there. "Really though," he began again, "if you clean up that damn mess of boxes we have the space"

“I’ll see what I can do,” Sherlock murmured, his eyes flickering to John’s hand as it fell to his thigh. He lifted his glass to his lips and finished it in three swallows. “Well. I think I’d like to go home, John.” He stood and fumbled for his wallet to dump several notes on the table. “At the rate the weather is progressing, I doubt the cabs will be running for much longer.” He shrugged on his coat and began making his way towards the door. He paused near the couple’s table to wait for John and peered over at the two. “If you anchored your shots properly, you wouldn’t develop callouses like that,” he announced, pointing to the man’s fingers. “And you.” He pointed at the redheaded woman. “You could stand to be a little more subtle, your knife will do no good if everyone can see it coming.” He felt a bit lightheaded. Perhaps he shouldn’t have finished that last drink so quickly.

"Sherlock!" John rose swiftly and moved to follow the detective, feeling uneasy as he watched his slightly unsteady steps. Definitely a bit too much to drink. He paused by the couple and said a quick apology; "Really, so sorry, don't know how he gets when he's-" John made a gesture with one hand- "drunk." He then caught up to his companion and ushered him out of the restaurant. Once on the street he realized that he'd underestimated the bitter cold as the icy sleet rained down and a harsh wind bit at his clothes. Thankfully there were still a few cabs about, and it took no more than a handful of minutes to coax one to their stretch of sidewalk, though that was enough time to become well and truly soaked. As the slick black car nosed its way to the curb, he chided the detective. "Was that absolutely necessary? You don't always have to show off."

“It’s what I do, John,” Sherlock answered as he pitched forward and caught himself on the edge of the cab. He yanked open the door and crawled in. “Genius demands an audience.” He suddenly felt very tired - the need for sleep hit him like a freight train. He leaned over and fell into John’s chest, his face pressed into the man’s jacket. “Where’s all this weather come from? It wasn’t like this when I got to Angelo’s.” The detective reached up with one hand to rap on the glass that separated the backseat from the front. “Can’t you drive any faster? I don’t want to be stuck in this.” He turned his head and buried his nose in John’s jacket. “Have you switched colognes?” he murmured, his voice muffled by fabric. “You smell different.”

The driver made a placating noise but the cab continued at the same pace; John wasn't sure it could go much faster in the downpour but at least the flat wasn't too far off. "I dunno, I don't think so. Maybe soaps, I might have changed soaps. Dear god, the solar system isn't important enough to remember but you can still recall how I smell?" He sighed as his partner continued nuzzling into his clothing, but made no attempt to shove him off- unless otherwise occupied the obviously inebriated detective might start something more upsetting, like chastising the cabbie. John watched the street flow past outside; a blur of yellow lights and flashing drops of water caught in the glow spilling from windows. A solitary figure trudged in the rain, and a few other cars braved it as well. "I think you need to concern yourself with the fact that not everyone wants to be your audience, Sherlock." murmured John as the cab pulled in in front of the sagging maroon covering of the deli by their flat. He passed a few notes to the driver along with a quick thanks and then tugged at Sherlock's shoulder. "C'mon you, we're here."

“We’ve had this conversation before, John,” slurred Sherlock as he clambered out of the cab. “It demands an audience, it does not wait round for an audience to present itself.” He took two steps and tripped over his own feet, arms flailing as he attempted to steady himself. He stopped, stood tall, adjusted his coat, and tried again. Much better. He fumbled through his pockets for the door key and attempted to unlock the front door. Much to his chagrin, he was unable to get the key into the lock. “John!” he prompted, jiggling the door handle, “Won’t open. Key’s not working.” The detective paused and tilted his head to one side. “Of course I remember your scent, John,” he said in an unamused tone. “S’familiar. Smells like home.” He leaned in dangerously close to the blonde man and inhaled sharply. “Soap. Tea. That blasted fabric softener you put in the wash. And -” he inhaled again - “tobacco smoke. That’s new. But is it yours is the question.” He narrowed his eyes and waited for an answer.

John brushed Sherlock gently away to a more reasonable distance and plucked the keys from his hand with two fingers. "Erm, yes, might be mine," explained the doctor as he unlocked the door. "Bit of an off-and-on habit I picked up." He threw open the door and stepped inside, glad to be out of the rain. Water dripped with a steady tak, tak on the floor as he shed his jacket and started up the stairs, carefully taking Sherlock by the elbow and steering him to the landing where he proceeded to strip off the detective's sodden greatcoat and hang both articles by the living room's entrance. Rain pooled about his collar as it dropped from his hair. "Not something to really concern you, as I've been meaning to quit anyways." The nicotine was mostly just a crutch, a soft reminder of familiar things, and he refrained from dabbling in it often. "Now." John fixed his flatmate with a stern gaze. "You need to dry off and get off to bed before you get any brilliant ideas; in the morning we'll deal with this mess." He made a motion with one arm, waving towards the scattered boxes, and then gave a gentle push in the direction of Sherlock's bedroom. "Go on."

Sherlock mumbled some unintelligible words as he began his slow progression down the hallway. He made it as far as the bedroom and shut the door behind him, taking longer than was necessary to find the light switch on the wall. As he peeled off his wet clothes and shrugged on a t-shirt and pyjama bottoms, the lights flickered once, twice, and fizzled out. The room went dark, and a quick glance out the window confirmed that the entire street had lost its power. The sleet still poured down and rattled against the sides of the building. Sherlock let out a loud, exasperated noise and fell into bed, not even bothering to crawl under the blankets. “John!” he shouted towards the door. “John, come here.” He turned his head to look at the door.

An outage was unsurprising considering the horrid development of the storm outside; John flicked the curtains back and watched the clouds roil for a moment, lit up by traces of lightning. It was a surreal scene- lightning danced from grey to blinding white, illuminating the rapidly shifting sky in a beautiful battle of light and dark, visible only as the street darkened. With a sigh he shut the curtain and made his way unsteadily through the room, shuffling around the many boxes and bins. His feet were still cautious in the doorway to Sherlock’s room, and he gripped the frame with one hand as he peered into the darkened space. “Sherlock? What do you want me to see?” John took a step inward, trying to remember the positions of the furniture. His knee hit the bedframe, and the doctor stumbled slightly. “Yes, I know the power’s out. What do you want?”

“Lie with me, John.” Sherlock lazily patted the mattress next to him. “It’s cold and no one’s out to fix the power lines at this hour.” He lifted his head off the pillow to look at John’s inevitably confused expression. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s going to drop well below freezing temperatures and we’ll be able to share the body heat so we don’t freeze to death.” He moved over so that there was room for John on the other side of the bed. “Well? Are you just going to stand there all night?”

John stood there for a moment, thinking. Of course, the detective was probably right- it would get very cold tonight, though the fireplace would heat a bit of the flat and the water would stay warm for a while. Neither would be enough to bother with, though, and he didn’t dare mention hot showers for fear Sherlock would like to share that as well, for some drunken yet scientifically backed reason. “You know, Sherlock, I do have my own bed, and with dry clothes it will be perfectly warm, as will yours.” He blinked in the darkness. “And no offense, but I’d rather not sleep with you. Besides,” continued the doctor as he began to make out the faintest figure of Sherlock, an arching curve of pale in the darkness. “I’m sopping wet and haven’t got any clothes down here.”

“And what, you’re going to traverse up the stairs in pitch black? I’ve got clothes, John, you can borrow a pair of pyjamas, it won’t hurt you.” The detective narrowed his eyes. “No, don’t even bother. ‘Sherlock, I can just use my mobile to light the way!’ Except that you left your mobile on the table at the restaurant, and no, I didn’t mention it to you, because you were too busy chastising me about the couple at the table across from us. You’re staying here and that’s that.” He laid back down, eyelids suddenly heavy. This was why he didn’t drink often. He’d have to remember this for future reference.

The doctor rolled his eyes and sent one hand drifting to the wall to his left for reference as he moved back towards the door. “Well, thanks for that,” he said sarcastically. He supposed someone would find it, be they employee or patron, and hopefully turn it in; a glance at the contacts list would send Angelo to their door. Just like the first case- were they just moving in the same motions as before? Stuck in the same loop? John gave himself a mental shake and took another step. “Fine.” Step. Towards the closet. Was there a stack of case files here, left from the detective’s final days in the flat? Yes, his foot brushed it as he reached a place that smelled of unworn clothes and soft cotton. God. What would everyone think? Not that he didn’t know the rumours of the residents of 221B. He fumbled in the darkness briefly as he exchanged dry sleepwear for his wet clothes, and then turned back to the bed. “Where are you?” asked John as he patted one edge of the mattress and gingerly sat. Though his hair was still slick with water, it was nice to be in something that wasn’t sopping wet.

“I’m right here, John,” Sherlock murmured softly. He reached out next to him until he felt John’s arm beneath his hand and curled his fingers around the man’s wrist. “Stay. Please.” His head was thick with sleep and alcohol, and sleep was welcoming him into her warm embrace. He took a deep breath in - the laundry detergent on the sheets. His own aftershave rubbed into the pillows. John’s soap. The precipitation from outside the window. All of it overwhelmingly familiar. He closed his eyes and tightened his grip on John’s wrist, offering one last “stay” before drifting into the bliss of unconsciousness.

This was absolutely ridiculous. Catering to the whims of a drunk child. As sleep relaxed the thin fingers on his arm, John felt his way up the bed and carefully leaned back into the rumpled bedding. It was warmer here, with the heat of a lanky limb next to him and the soft hush of the detective’s breathing sighing into the room, and it was strangely comforting. Lightning flashed through Sherlock’s window, briefly sending a shot of grey-white across the ceiling and lighting up the detective beside him, sprawled on the sheets. The growl of thunder followed, and John curled himself up under the heavy blanket, where exhaustion and emotional drainage warred with the deep rumble of the storm. Eventually the latter gave way to the siren call of sleep, and he drifted into darkness.


	10. Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightmares and the drudgery of daily life.

_The sun is blazing. It beats down, godlike in its power and apathy and absoluteness. The dust is everywhere, in his shoes, the cuffs of his sleeves. Everything slowly turns a grey brown as the wind blows and sand reshapes the world around him. His mouth tastes like dirt. His lunch tastes like it too, and he sighs as he stares at the sun. This is a very hard part- the waiting. And sitting. And wandering about, and lugging gear. The waiting is killing him._

_The smell of blood is sickening after so many hours with his hands in places that should never be open to the light. A man’s intestines gleam from where the skin and muscle of his abdomen should have been but have instead been torn away by shrapnel. Red spills from a shoulder, where the white of tendon and bone mix with scarlet. Fingers hang limp from dead limbs while others twitched and clawed, and the gentle sounds of mumbled encouragement are drowned out by the moans and screams of the dying. This is the part of war that no one talks about; the zombie dance._

_Artillery shells fling dirt and greenery and men in the air with the sounds of cannonfire. The sun is hot, and the wind blows dust into his eyes. Boom. Blood, everywhere. Is that a- oh god, it is. John can’t see the owner of the smoking thigh next to him in the panic. He wonders if the bitter smell, a mixture of gunpowder and charred skin, is coming from the severed, cauterized limb beside him or the man it belonged to. That smell again, the blood and the gore flecking his uniform, the white bone and the purple of liver and the yellow of stomach. More shells and thunderous bangs, high shrieks of the brave men made broken. Bodies he would have to tend and horrors he would never forget. Hell. This is hell._

John woke with a start in a cold sweat and a pounding heart. His chest heaved and he gasped for air, sitting up abruptly and panting as he gazed about the room. Soft light entered. The cannons faded, drifting away into the lockbox of his mind. “Oh, god,” John swallowed hard and shut his eyes. He was in Sherlock’s room. Weird, but okay. Safe. Familiar. His eyes opened again. There was the periodic table on the wall and the files he’d known to lay about the floor. His still wet clothes were in the corner. A sigh brought his attention to the detective at his side.

* * *

_Sherlock is blind. He crawls on hands and knees, unable to trust his sight for the haze that fills the room. Smoke, heat, an orange glow from the flames. Cold air on his face as he makes it outside, hands plunging into the fresh snow that covers the ground. He coughs and rolls onto his back, the melting snow seeping into his coat. He dares to open his eyes - they burn from the residual smoke pouring out of the building. Heavy boots crunch across the snow and stop near Sherlock’s head. He lifts his eyes, vision blurry, to find himself met with the barrel of a gun._

_He shuts his eyes, waiting for the click of the trigger that will be the last sound he hears. The gun fires, but nothing happens. One, two, three, four, five seconds pass. Sherlock opens his eyes - the gun is lying in the snow, as is the person who held it. Blood pools around the man’s head, turning the snow a bright, ghastly red. Sherlock sits up to see who fired the shot - John’s not twenty yards away, his own gun still aimed at the fallen man. The detective scrambles to his feet, shouting at John to run, run, far away, but John remains. He doesn’t move, he doesn’t blink, he doesn’t breathe._

_Sherlock runs at him and skids to a halt on the ice. There’s another gunshot. Blood begins pouring down John’s face from the neatly placed hole in between his eyes. There’s blood spatter on Sherlock’s coat and across his cheek, and he watches as John falls over and colours the snow with his own blood. Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, but no sound comes out. Sebastian Moran appears at his side and presses a handgun into Sherlock’s palm. “You did this,” the man whispers into Sherlock’s ear. Then he takes a step back and disappears into the shroud of smoke._

More darkness. Sherlock whimpered softly, and after a moment, he let go of the breath he was holding when he realised he wasn’t blind and that the room was just dark. The power was still out, and the room was deathly cold. John was awake, too, his face lit by the soft light of the dawn that poured in through the window. He inhaled sharply - no smoke. Just laundry detergent, aftershave, John. Perfectly normal. He yanked the blankets up to his chin and buried his face in them, wishing his breathing wasn’t so loud and that his limbs would stop shaking.

“...Sherlock?” The question came, soft and tentative. The hush of air next to him had accelerated from an uneasy rise and fall to a rapid rush similar to his own; Sherlock pulled at the bedsheets and hid his face as John turned to look at him. His chest heaved beneath the blankets. “Sherlock, are you okay?” He hadn’t expected the detective to be one plagued by nightmares when he seemed so sure and strong in the face of danger be it oncoming bus or grinning bomber, yet even as the oozing traces of his own terrors slipped back into their cavern he could see the emotions playing out on his flatmate’s face. Fear was one of them, and it was great and terrible fear. John turned, leaned back into the bed and on his side, propped on one elbow. His heart still pounded, but he ignored it as he reached out and rested a gentle hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. It shook beneath his touch. “What’s wrong?”

As always, Sherlock’s own body betrayed him. He didn’t get nightmares often, but when he did, they always came violently and usually ended in John’s death. It scared him with how terrified his dream-self was of losing John - so much sentiment. He wrenched his shoulder away from John’s grasp and buried his face further in the blanket. “M’fine,” he muttered, his voice muffled by the fabric. His head was swimming with the remnants of last night’s brandy, and he felt a strong headache coming on. He shrunk away from John as much as possible - the last thing he wanted to do was give John further reasons to doubt whether having him back at Baker Street was a good idea. He focused his breathing into steady, even breaths, and eventually the trembling in his body stopped. He dared to lift his head and looked over his shoulder at John. “John?” he asked quietly. “All right?”

“Yeah...” He trailed off into thought, one hand reaching up to run through his sweat-dampened hair. Part of him, as always, naturally wanted to reclaim the dream while the other shrunk away from it to aim at softer things to cover itself with. He tried not try to grasp at Sherlock again; he recognized the angry growl in his voice, similar to a dog’s low warning. His heart slowed to an easier rate as the detective’s breath halted to a careful pace, and together they quieted. “I just. I can’t-” John faltered almost as soon as he began and rolled to face the ceiling, taking slight peace at the slow creeping light. Shot still echoed softly in his ears like aftershocks of thunder. “I can’t forget it, even after all this time. When I enlisted-” he broke off again with a sharp, painful coughing laugh. “When I enlisted, I didn’t expect- this many bodies.” He curled in on himself with a ripple of lean muscle as the soundtrack of war continued and then lifted his left hand as if to trace the light above him, and watched sorrowfully as it trembled. The doctor dropped it and glanced at Sherlock. “What about you?”

“There was an old hotel in the German countryside,” Sherlock began softly, turning over to face John. He traced circles on his pillow with his fingertips as he spoke. “Place was shoddy as hell, they should have closed it ages ago. I got into a spot of trouble, there was a gas leak, the whole place went up in flames. Barely crawled out in one piece.” He hesitated, unwilling to share the other details his brain insisted upon inserting into this particular scenario every time he had this dream. “Wasn’t pleasant,” he ended flatly. “It seems to be one piece of information my brain has a hard time deleting.” He stopped with his circles and started tracing letters into the pillow. His eyes flickered up to John’s face, examining the tiny creases near John’s eyes and the stubble forming on his chin. Without thinking, he reached out to rest his fingertips on John’s shoulder.

He jumped at the touch. “I’m sorry, Sherlock.” Whether he was apologizing for the reaction or the nightmare was unclear; John sighed and let his eyes slowly drift shut with no elaboration. He pondered the significance of the place the detective described, halting a question forming on his tongue that was probably too straightforward to ask at this delicate time. The warm fingers at his shoulder moved slightly, a long, slow oval brushed over the skin and bone and scarring through the soft cotton he was clothed in. Sherlock’s clothes. They still contained trace scents of the detective, or maybe that was the bedding, or Sherlock himself. It was hard to place the origin of the familiar smell even as the acknowledgement of it brought a slight calm to the doctor. The hand at his shoulder stilled, and he instinctively brought his hand to cover it. Comfort. “Are you alright? Will you be?”

“I’m always alright,” Sherlock murmured, his eyes focused on the skin stretched across John’s fingers that covered his own. Tanned skin from years of too much sun; tiny scars that told stories of John’s military days; the slightest tremble in the muscles, the aftermath of his nightmares. He was silent for a long moment. “You have a question,” he said quietly. “What is it?” He curled his fingers under, fully intending to pull away from John’s touch, but decided against it and left his hand resting on the doctor’s shoulder. Trust. “If we are going to make this work, we have to trust each other, do we not? Ask it.”

 _Not always alright._ Sherlock tried so hard to keep that icy mask in place, and it saddened John both in his success at securing his emotions and at the knowledge of the vulnerability beneath. It had broken in the past, though; it had been cast aside for a possessive greed the night of their first case, and again in their last days together. Fear had stripped it away when they fought the hound, and sorrow when they faced Adler, yet the detective slipped it back on like a second skin the first chance he got after the rush was over. But here he was. Asking for John to reach out. The doctor sighed. “What... happened?” He felt the hand on his shoulder tense ever so slightly. “What was so bad that you can’t get rid of it?”

“Dreams are complex, John. Bits of memories, gaps that have been filled in with whatever fantasy the brain can create, subconscious thoughts that bleed over into places where they shouldn’t be.” Sherlock closed his eyes, grasping at the fragments of his nightmare that still lingered behind his eyelids. “In my dreams, you die. Sometimes, I am the murderer. Other times, I am unable to stop the one who takes your life.” His eyes snapped open, unwilling to relive the horror that appeared in his sleep. “I have seen many a dead body in my time, John. I have seen men die. I have taken life in defense of my own. But this . . . this is different.” He barely noticed that he’d twisted his fingers around John’s and was gripping them so tightly his knuckles were beginning to turn white. “Do you always feel like this after your nightmares? Guilty and utterly powerless?” He finally had the presence of mind to release his grip on the doctor’s hand, muttering a soft apology as he did so.

They held a long moment of silence as the doctor watched light drift across the ceiling and tried to formulate an answer. Did he? The images began again, a roll of film inside his mind; red, always red. White of bone. A hand grasping his, feverish eyes that held a mindless anger and fear. A man crying out, making his swear to patch him up. The same eyes, deadened. John cringed away from the memory and pulled himself out of the well of his mind and back into the stillness of the flat. Safety. “Yeah. Always.” The doctor sighed and then continued in a soft voice. “Dreams are more than accidental spillage, Sherlock. They are our hopes and fears made real.” He turned his head to look at the detective. “Why are you so afraid?”

Sherlock felt exposed. Other people were easy to read. Emotions were easy to pick up on, as were the motives behind him. Here, in the quiet hours of the morning, curled amongst the blankets with his best friend, his own emotions were being laid bare before him. The absurdity of it all made him want to laugh. But this was what it was about, wasn’t it? Starting over, rebuilding from the ground up, giving John what he wanted. And in this case, he wanted Sherlock’s very core. “You are -” he started, then stopped. How could he put it into words? You are everything. That was the simple way of putting it. A lighthouse in a sea of chaos. A lamp post in a snowy wood. The North Star on which Sherlock was able to find his sense of direction. As poetic as that all was, it was so terribly sentimental. He sounded like a codependent child. He opted to keep his thoughts to himself and turned his back to John, face buried into his pillow.

John sighed as the hand was pulled from his grasp and the warmth at his shoulder vanished. “Trust, Sherlock.” It was probably an overly hopeful wish to believe that the detective would actually listen to him- he was probably thinking about his own emotionalism and trying to deny it. Pulling on the mask. John pulled his eyes to the ceiling as watched the light creep higher. He’d have to start getting ready for his day at the surgery soon, but all he truly desired was to curl up in the blankets and go back to sleep. John briefly entertained the idea of calling in sick- he didn’t yet know if the power was on, though by the quiet hum of the flat’s internal systems led him to assume that yes, it was, and he’d had a fairly decent record the last few years. John sat, unwillingly shedding the warmth of the bed as responsibility forced him to rise. He pat his flatmate’s shoulder as he went, and then made his way through the door after pausing to stoop and retrieve the damp clothes from the night before.

 _Trust._ John made it sound so simple. And truthfully, trusting John was simple. It was trusting himself, his own emotions and thoughts, that terrified him. Sherlock could easily express his reasoning behind a particular theory or line of questioning, but expressing his emotions was an entirely different monster to deal with. His eyes followed John as he picked up his things and made his way to the door. The detective opened his mouth to say something, but decided against it and maintained his silence until John left the room. Perhaps some things were better left unsaid.

* * *

_Bzzzt. Bzzzt. Bzzz-THUNK._

Sherlock woke to the sound of his mobile vibrating off the nightstand and onto the floor. He let out a groan as he tossed the blanket aside and reached for the buzzing contraption. He tried to read the message on his screen through blurry, sleep-filled eyes - well, that certainly wasn't going to work. He rubbed at his eyes and tried again.

**[NEW MESSAGE. From: Lestrade. Received at 10:38 a.m.]**

_Double homicide and we can't make heads or tails of it. Fancy a look at our crime scene? It's not much - a 5, maybe a 6. GL_

The detective arched an eyebrow. Oh, how he wanted a case. It had been ages since he'd been on this side of the law, and frankly, it seemed like a good distraction. But Lestrade had already tried this once before.

_Fool me twice, Lestrade. SH_

A couple of moments passed before Sherlock's mobile buzzed again.

_For real this time. GL_

_Text me the address. SH_

Half an hour later, Sherlock pulled up along the side of a country road. He climbed out of the cab and examined the scene before him. A large square was marked off in the middle of the field with yellow crime scene tape, and two squad cars were parked near the square, lights flashing. Only two officers were present, along with Lestrade, who ducked under the tape to greet Sherlock.

"Mr. Holmes," said Lestrade with a dip of his head.

"Detective Inspector." Sherlock returned the gesture. "Awfully sparse coverage for a crime scene."

"Not everyone is completely thrilled about your return, Sherlock. Until such a time as your name is completely cleared, I can't just be letting you wander onto every crime scene."

"Of course. What do we have?"

“Young couple. Gunshot wounds to the head.” Lestrade led the way back under the tape and pointed to the bodies lying in the grass. “Except there’s no blood pool and no gun.”

“Not a suicide pact, then,” Sherlock murmured as he examined the scene. Both were in their early to mid-twenties. The woman was dark-skinned with long curly hair, while the man was pale and blonde. Both wore gold wedding bands on their left hands and were facedown in the dirt. “Young married couple, probably barely out of college.” He crouched next to the bodies and gingerly lifted the man’s wrist by the cuff of his sleeve. “He bites his nails - nervous habit.” He stood. “They’re in steep debt, probably due to student loans or a mortgage for their first home. They’re young, probably turned to questionable places for money. Do some digging, I’m sure you’ll find a loan shark round somewhere.”

Lestrade nodded slowly. “I’ll have someone look into it.”

Sherlock crossed his arms and gave the inspector a pointed look. “Detective Inspector, despite your obvious doubts, I assure you I am still perfectly capable of solving a case and I’m a bit peeved that you called me out for a 4 just to prove a point.”

“All right, you caught me.” Lestrade lifted his hands in surrender. “Case closed. Thank you for your help.”

Sherlock paused. “I moved back into the flat.”

“I wasn’t going to -”

“Yes you were. And to answer your other question, yes, things are alright and we’re getting on just fine, thank you.”

“Good. Good.” Lestrade awkwardly scratched the back of his neck. “You know we’re just concerned, that’s all.”

“Noted. Goodbye, Lestrade.”

“Sherlock.” Lestrade put a hand on the detective’s arm. “It’s good that things are . . . you know, better. Just . . . don’t keep us out of the loop, all right?”

Sherlock’s eyes softened. He recognized that tone - the subtle notes of authority, the undercurrent of concern. He hadn’t heard that voice in a very, very long time. He dipped his head in acknowledgment of the comment. “All right.”

He bid the Detective Inspector farewell and only took the cab as far as the city limits; he needed to think. He opted to walk back towards Baker Street, examining the pavement in front of him as he walked. Memories from early that morning, when the sun was barely peeking over the horizon, came flooding back to him. The warmth of John’s hand. The smell of him. The comfort of having him there when he awoke from a nightmare. No, no, no. Sentiment. He shook his head to clear his thoughts. Sleep deprivation. After effects of too much alcohol the night before. Temporary lapse in judgment. Nothing more, nothing less.

No, more. Much more. John stirs something deep in my soul. Warmth. Comfort. Safety. Home. John is home. John is safe. Why? He’s just John. Perhaps it is merely his physical presence that is comforting. The warmth blooming in Sherlock’s chest said otherwise. Even thoughts of him stir up these feelings. How odd. Emotions are odd. How do ordinary people live with these things? Absolutely absurd . . .

His thoughts were interrupted by the mobile buzzing in his pocket.

**[Incoming Call: Mycroft Holmes]**

Lovely.

**[Accept]**

“What do you want?”

“Thank you for letting me know you were leaving the house,” came Mycroft’s voice over the phone.

“Sorry? Wasn’t aware I had to check in with Mummy before being allowed to go outside.”

“Dr. Watson has informed me you slept over at Baker Street last night.”

“Yes.”

“Is it safe to assume you will continue spending your nights there?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I am glad to hear it.”

“Haven’t you got a war to start or something?”

“Just checking in, brother dear.”

“You’ve checked in. It’s all fine.”

“Of course it is. You remember our talk? Two nights ago?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t forget it, Sherlock.”

“Goodbye, Mycroft.”

“Sher-”

Sherlock hung up before Mycroft could continue blabbering. Of course he remembered their talk. Don’t be your own undoing, Sherlock. As it always was - Sherlock Holmes would be the one to bring himself down.

He finally wandered down Baker Street and paused outside of Speedy’s Cafe, watching his own reflection in the window. A blank expression stared back at him. Blank. Emotionless. As it should be. Think about the case. You did solve a murder in about thirty seconds flat today. Yes, good. Murder, cases. Not John.

He adjusted the collar on his coat and made his way up the stairs to their flat.

* * *

John shuffled up to his room to get dressed. He wasn’t quite late yet. More toeing the line than actually in danger. He climbed the stairs slowly and dug through his clothes for something to wear. Things had been fitting him more loosely as of late; he drowned in Sherlock’s sleepwear. Once dressed he returned to the kitchen for something to eat. Mrs Hudson had made biscuits a few days ago, and they did nicely with jam. John was out the door on time and hailed a cab to take him to the hospital.

Inevitably, the doctor ended up in his favorite patient’s room, as he had two weeks before.

Gabriel smiled when he saw John standing slightly abashed in the doorway. He was in the middle of breakfast today, a glass of orange juice and rather unconvincing eggs. Half eaten toast and a cup of mixed fruit. John gave him a sympathetic glance as he eyed the meal, and the man responded with a knowing smirk. They’d both come to terms with the fact that hospital food wasn’t anyone’s favorite.

“You look different today, Dr Watson. Perhaps a new development with your detective?”

“Ah, yes,” John said, pulling up the visitor’s chair. “We ran into each other last night at Angelo’s and talked it out until his intoxication made it a rather good idea to return to the flat. He started insulting people.” A light grin pulled up his lips, and Gabriel chuckled as he picked at his breakfast with a fork. “I think he’ll be back at the flat permanently now.” He didn’t add in the rest, the lost power and the shared bed- was it convention to offer that he’d spent the night with his flatmate, or explain the nightmares, the comfort and the warm hand on his shoulder? Doubtful, but he could still smell Sherlock on him, a ghost of a scent when he turned his head.

“That’s good. You look better than you have in a fortnight,” his patient mentioned with a pointed look that John returned with a raised eyebrow. “You two really seem to need each other,” he explained as he spooned a mouthful from his plate and scowled at it.

John frowned and rolled his eyes. “We’re not-”

“I know.” A serious gaze met his own. “You don’t have to be. Whether or not you and Mr Holmes are together in that sense doesn’t matter when it is so clear that as he has returned you are better.” Another bite, the crunch of toast. The toast here wasn’t too bad so long as it wasn’t stale, which it occasionally was.

It was true that he had been less than happy with Sherlock’s absence, but he attributed that more to the general turmoil of confusion and indecision than anything else. What was anyone supposed to do when their dead partner came back to life and then walked out again, especially after that fight?

John pondered the weeks prior for a moment. “I... missed him. Wondered what he was up to. It’s better for him to be back at the flat than on the streets where I can’t keep an eye on him.”

Gabriel nodded slowly as he considered the response. “Don’t worry- The two of will find your stride together soon.”

The man paused thoughtfully for a moment, and then chuckled to himself; with a shake of his head, he returned to breakfast. John tilted his head and gave him a pointed look. “You’ve told me so much about Mr Holmes,” he supplied with a grin, “and I still have yet to meet him. Would have thought the two of you were joined at the hip, the way you carry on,”

John snorted. “Yes, that’s a great idea- I’ll bring him in one of these days. ‘Bring your obnoxious flatmate to work’ event or something,” the doctor joked. “He’ll piss off every nurse on this floor and the lobby receptionist to boot. It’ll be a real treat.” Laughter followed. “Really though, he has his finer moments, but he’s a bit of a git.”

His nurse bustled in then and rapped twice on the doorframe with her knuckles. “Your morning session is in half an hour, Gabriel,” she called.

The skin around his eyes crinkled as he smiled good-naturedly. “Of course, Nurse Rhyn,”

“How many times must I ask you to call me Catherine?” Mrs Rhyn chuckled to herself and John shook his head slightly to himself as he watched her straighten her lavender cardigan.

“At least once more, Nurse Rhyn,” the man replied as John stood and left.

The rest of the morning passed quickly, as Mondays often did; if they weren’t hectic, Mondays were uneventful to the extreme. John left his desk when his stomach began to half heartedly growl and made his way through the halls to the cafeteria. Molly greeted him, a thin smile on her face as she fell into step beside him.

“Hello, John,” She smelled of disinfectant, undoubtedly from her morgue shift. Molly was an odd creature- he could never understand why someone so gentle and innocent would work in that place, but then again she was probably more strong-willed than he believed. She put up with Sherlock, after all. Not to mention her involvement in his death. John nodded to her as they entered the cafeteria, where her chemical scent was replaced with that of some form of meat, cold egg and tangy vinegar, the slightly questionable prepared sandwiches. They made for the long counters and filled plates with the most trustworthy of the options and moved to a table. Their table, he supposed, as it was the same one they’d sat at two weeks prior.

She spoke first, timidly, one hand fluttering up to push an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “So, how are things?”

He took a bite of his sandwich, ham and cheese, and swallowed before answering. “They’re, ah, they’re good I suppose.” John dipped his head once and Molly flashed a small smile. “Sherlock has moved back into the flat; he came back last night during the storm.”

“That’s great,” she chimed as her grin grew. “He really needs that, you know. Living with you, I mean. How are you feeling about him coming back?”

“I’m alright with it.”

“You look better,” commented Molly as she nodded again, mostly to herself. “You know, Greg says that it’s not good for the two of you to be fighting.” John paused, his gaze hardening into a questioning stare. “In those last days, right before the end- he knew he was going to have to leave you.” She picked at her lunch as John stilled, his own forgotten on the table before him. “He looked sad. He reminded me of my father, a bit.”

Molly sighed, her mouth pulling into a frown. “He just looked sad, John. Really sad.”

They both sat in silence for a moment, John slowly tuning out the low hum of conversation drifting from the other staff members in the room. Sad? Abruptly, his mobile began to buzz; he held up an apologetic finger to Molly as his other hand dug the phone out of his pocket.

_Did Sherlock make it back to 221B before or after the outage? M_

John’s mouth pressed into a frown and Molly gave him a quick look of confusion, a question on her face. “Mycroft,” he explained as he thumbed out a reply.

_Before. How did you know he came back? -JW_

_I keep track of my brother’s activities, John. Besides, it was only a matter of time before he moved back in with you. M_

Molly returned to her lunch. John decided there wasn’t much of a response to that- it seemed everyone had expected them to make nice except the residents of 221B themselves. He slipped the phone away and turned back to Molly, who smiled nervously. “Mycroft?”

He nodded brusquely. “Asking about Sherlock.”

“And... How is he?”

“He’s fine,” replied John. “Last night it was a bit hard to tell, but I think he was alright- a bit drunk. He felt well enough to insult almost everyone at the diner we were at, at the very least.” A smile darted between them.

He’d missed Molly. John felt more than a little regretful that he’s so coldly dropped away from his little group of friends after the detective died- as rarely as he’d interacted with some of them outside of his work with Sherlock, he’d felt their absence clinging to the bigger gap, the holes where the fall had slammed in hard. At the time the doctor had felt estranged from them at the time, however. They were Sherlock’s; his small group of friends, his round table, assembled by the detective himself, and it seemed strange to pull himself in alone. Of course, that was precisely what he should have done. Molly and Greg, Mycroft and Mike- they were his too.

They settled into a more easy conversation; Molly relaxed in her plastic chair and John dug into his lunch with fervor. He chuckled, sharing the finer points of Sherlock’s inebriation- she laughed and supplied with her life with Lestrade.

He’d missed a lot.

When they bid farewell there was a light in John’s eyes that hadn’t been there before- Molly, infinite in her quiet perceptiveness, picked it up and returned it with her own.

It was interesting to have these conversations, reflections and mirrors of ones he’d had days prior. Every disturbance and every tranquility revolved around Sherlock- when he was gone he went to his friends to talk, and when he returned John did the same. Three years’ progression of hope and anger and pain repeated were monotonous in comparison.

John attended to his scheduled appointments for the day- the first were of no interest, but the final patient was a bit peculiar; a small girl, pale and delicate with rather scraggly blond hair and silvery eyes that seemed very surprised.

“Good afternoon, Miss Scamander,” he greeted as he entered the room. She sat with her thin legs crossed at the ankles and stared curiously at the wall opposite.

“And to you, Doctor,” Her voice was soft, almost singsongish. “Lovely weather today. Very nice for catching butterflies, you know. There is a very special breed in season right now; my father says it’s all the way from Africa.”

John blinked once, then consulted his clipboard. Flipping through the files, he noted a few of the scrawled comments, things like early childhood trauma, request to psychological denied, mandatory therapy, mixed in with the usual reports of sprained wrists and common colds. “So what seems to be the problem, miss?”

“Oh, I have this little bump here,” One hand drifted to her shoulder. “Daddy says it looks like pox.”

A quick inspection proved it to be a mole, but she wouldn’t have it, serenely insisting that it was a pox she’d picked up somewhere in South America. They went on for a while before he agreed to schedule her in if it got worse.

He left half an hour early that day after Sarah insisted that with the few people they were getting that day he was free to take off; they had enough staff. John hailed a cab and make the short journey to the nearest Tesco. With the most basic of mental grocery lists in his head, John knew he had a few important things to pick up, what with the occupancy of 221B doubled and the returning member a picky eater- then there was the normal stuff of course, the eggs and butter, the bread. More sugar- who even put sugar in their coffee? Weirdos, that’s who.

For once the pin machines cooperated and, laden with groceries, he was able to return to the flat at a somewhat reasonable hour. Calling for Sherlock as he entered the flat, John realized he was alone; both his landlady and the detective were out and about. No matter. Perishables quickly entered the cold safety of the refrigerator, which was still blessedly free of any questionable body parts, and the rest to various cupboards and shelves.

And suddenly John was out of things to do, and so he stood there in the kitchen, hands flexing uncertainly at his sides. Listening to the quiet and the distant sounds of automobiles on the street below. He stayed like that for a moment and then settled into his chair with a book and a biscuit to wait.

* * *

The detective strode into the flat some time later, full of the confidence and excitement that followed a day of adventure; an afterglow that clung to him in the nights preceded by long, interesting casework.

John muted the sitcom he was watching and gave Sherlock a very pointed look as he moved about the room. “Having fun, are we? First day back and you’re already running amok I’d imagine- probably be getting a message from Lestrade later about how you terrorized somebody.” He stood and dropped the remote in his chair before turning towards the kitchen. “There’s some stuff in the fridge, I went to the grocery. And Mrs Hudson left a dish of her onion soup.” No doubt the detective had been out most of the day at crime scenes and his lab, if he was allowed back in the hospital, and hadn’t eaten; John made a small gesture towards the adjoining room.

Sherlock snorted as he pulled off his coat and tossed it onto the sofa. “I didn’t terrorize anyone,” he retorted as he made his way into the kitchen and retrieved a spoon from a drawer. “Lestrade let me onto a crime scene but he won’t let me near anyone who’s still breathing.” He sat down at the dining table and pulled the bowl toward him - still warm, but not terribly hot. It would do. “He called me out into the English countryside for a 4. A four, John. I got dressed and took a cab and everything!” He swallowed a spoonful of soup and made a face. Mrs. Hudson had gone a bit heavy on the salt this time round. “Took me all of thirty seconds to solve a murder, John. It’s insulting.” He stirred the soup in the bowl, watching the bits of vegetables swirl around in the broth.

The doctor chuckled and rolled his eyes. “Oh, yes, must have been very difficult for you. Imagine, the great Sherlock Holmes being poked out of his hole for a four.” He retrieved another biscuit and leaned against the counter as he chewed. “In all seriousness though, I think you should count yourself lucky that Lestrade is willing to work with you at all. After all, wasn’t part of this mess that nobody was to believe in you?” The humor in his face dropped away as swiftly as if it had been cut away by a blade. “Anderson, Donovan- that was Moriarty’s plot.” John shook his head. “They’ve all taken it really well. And now you’re being called in for casework.” His eyes met the detective’s, serious and dark, but well-intentioned. “I know you’re probably very anxious to get back out there, but you have to give it some time.”

“I haven’t got time, John. Give me problems, give me work. The dull routine of existence will run me into the ground.” Sherlock’s eyes fixed on John’s hands. He turned the remnant of his biscuit in his fingers, over and over. Stop. Tan lines, scars, a new papercut on his left thumb. He probably hadn’t even noticed. Blood pulsing in the veins just beneath the surface of his wrist. No. The detective averted his eyes. “What am I supposed to do? Sit here in my dressing gown and drink tea while I wait for Scotland Yard to readjust to my presence?” He set the spoon down and pushed the bowl away. He’d barely eaten a third of the soup. “I’ve got to find something to do. I’ll go mad sitting round the flat all day.”

Another pointed stare, this time meaningfully directed at the bowl in an undoubtedly futile attempt to get his flatmate to eat. “It’s not like there isn’t work around here to do. All those boxes, your equipment- I would expect if you want to go back to work you’ll need to get things set up around here.” John finished his biscuit and dropped his hands, noting the gaze upon them as it likewise fell. “I’m sure you’re not too fond of such manual labor, but it really must be done and we both know that if I do it you’ll have to do it over again to get everything to your liking,” he insisted. “And that will give you time to let things calm at the station. People are people, Sherlock,” John chased the detective’s glance about the table. “They need time. You need it. And come on, last night?” A brief gesture, more across the room than at Sherlock. “Getting drunk at Angelo’s? I think you need a bit of quiet.”

Sherlock snorted loudly. “Drunk and mildly intoxicated are two very different things, John,” he replied. “I had quiet. I had quiet last night, I had quiet this morning. I need things to occupy my mind.” He rose from the table and opened up the nearest box. He peered into it, decided against it, and closed the flaps again before moving to a different box. “You talked to Mycroft.” It was a statement, not an inquiry. Sherlock began pulling things out of the box - books, papers, sheet music. “And Molly, I would imagine. Learn anything interesting?” His tone was almost accusatory. Truthfully, he just wanted to direct the conversation away from himself. There was a tinkle of glass from the box, and Sherlock picked up the crushed remains of a beaker. Lovely.

“Look, if it makes any difference to you, they approached me about it. Not my fault that half of the people you associate with know every bit of your business.” John cleared his throat. “And it’s my business too, you know.” He watched as the detective moved from box to box, removing a sheaf of papers here and a bit of glassware there. He’d probably make a bigger mess than they already had before the flat was in any decent condition, though it would be nice to inform Mrs Hudson that the flat would be cleaned. “There’s a rather considerable gap between the mornings such as this one- you were hungover, I’d bet- and quiet ones. You just need to have a calm week, okay? Could you do that, Sherlock? Just one week where you don’t cause any trouble?

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but Mycroft's words resonated in his ear. Don't be your own undoing. He shut his mouth and nodded. "All right." He turned his attention back to the box. His hand was bleeding a bit from the broken glass - no matter. He pulled out an old notebook with musical notation scribbled in it, flipped through it, and tossed it aside. Old music, worthless to him now. A copy of Darwin's The Origin of the Species. A book called Cosmos that looked brand new. A file from an old case years before. He examined everything in the box thoroughly - perhaps more thoroughly than was necessary.

That was it then; day one and they were back to this, the not-fighting. The morning was already forgotten, the closeness and the warmth, the companionship. Of course, such was rare with Sherlock anyways, and now it rested in the back of both their minds. John turned away with a sharp sigh and cleared the table. It occurred to him that this was just as they’d been on the night of Sherlock’s return when the emotion stretched them both as tight as they could go. The detective quiet in the living room, the doctor in the kitchen. John leaned against the counter and pinched the bridge of his nose. He hadn't expected Sherlock to back down so quickly. There was no contesting it though- John sighed once more and moved to the- oh. Red. “Sherlock, your hand,” he murmured softly.

“Hmm?” Sherlock glanced up and brought his hand before his eyes. “Ah. Minor inconvenience.” He stared at it for a moment longer before continuing to sort through the box. He reached for another book but stopped - his hand was bleeding quite a bit more than he’d thought. Not wishing to ruin the book, he slid past John to the kitchen sink to rinse his hand, muttering things under his breath about how Mrs. Hudson should have been more careful with his things. He shut off the faucet and held a paper towel to his hand, applying pressure to stop the bleeding. His eyes met John’s, and he tilted his head to one side. “Are you just going to stand there and stare at me like that all night?” he questioned. “It’s a bit unnerving, John.”

Unnerving? Unlikely, but he ducked his head and started back for his chair before the television. It flickered back to life as he thumbed the remote. The sitcom had finished; he flipped past reality shows, the nature channel, a documentary on flintlock pistols and pirates. He settled on some sixties murder mystery series, before fully realizing what it was. Oh. Of course. That was it then. Already reaching out the the life he craved, the echoing of footsteps on the street in the dark, the flap of that coat as they rounded the next corner. The adventure. The little sharp barb of missing someone had slipped between his ribs sometime in the long months apart and it had settled inside his chest, lapping at his lungs. Curled up by his heart. And now that Sherlock had returned, it would all start again.

He welcomed the idea as soon as it came to him. John had been holding the prospect in the back of his mind since the detective had shown up on the doorstep and now as it came timidly into the light he beckoned it forward. The mess, the intolerable attitude, being kept in the dark; it was worth the adventure, wasn’t it?

Sherlock cleaned up the flat; the kitchen counters were once more covered in glassware and chemicals. The fridge doubled as a morgue as it had before. John continued through his work at the hospital by day until his mobile would buzz with the newest development. Another body by the river. Come take a look?

Life went on. Not entirely in the smoothest fashion, but it went on.


	11. True Colours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At first the murders seem unconnected. But they never really are, are they?

It had been two months since Sherlock had come back to Baker Street and life had regained some semblance of normalcy. John worked at the hospital, Sherlock tried to blow up their flat with experiments, and occasionally was allowed on crime scenes. Life was much quieter than it had been before - Sherlock even slept and ate (though still not as often as he should). The two flatmates carried on, engaged in a delicate sort of dance as neither man would acknowledge what had passed between them. Sherlock preferred it that way - he’d been doing an excellent job of pretending that particular instance hadn’t happened, and he rather liked the way things were. Well, he liked it for the most part. The first two weeks had been fine. The third week had been tedious. And the weeks that followed were beginning to drive him mad with boredom. He’d finally reached a breaking point when Lestrade phoned him on this particular morning. He didn’t even bother with a proper hello.

“If it’s anything less than an eight, I’m not interested,” Sherlock said flatly.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll be interested in this one,” the detective inspector replied with a smirk. Anderson cocked his head as he spoke, and Lestrade lifted one hand to direct him away; the man knew who he was calling, but he would hope to prolong the inevitable fight between his detective and forensics team. His gaze traveled past Anderson to the figures on the ground behind him as he stepped farther into the alleyway. “I’m beginning you’ll be pleased with this one, frankly- it’s at least an eight.” The stench of the rubbish bin filled the air as his shoes crunched over a piece of forgotten plastic. “Two dead, found in a dumpster, with matching wounds to the head. Shot.” Lestrade looked distastefully at the dark droplets still clinging to the temple of the woman nearest him. “I think we’ve got you a serial murderer. I’ll text you the address.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He glanced over at John, who looked at him with confusion on his face. _What is it?_ The detective waved a hand. _Not worth my time._ “Two people dead of gunshot wounds hardly constitutes an eight, Lestrade. I’m sure even your less-than-remarkable officers can figure this one out on their own. Call me if something more interesting turns up.” He pulled the phone away from his ear, thumb hovering over the _end call_ button.

Of course, smart-arse. “Sherlock, there aren’t just two. Over the past month or so we’ve had deaths, all couples, all shot through the head. These two were wrapped in a tarp and thrown in an alleyway; a few weeks ago we had another pair in the river. Before that we found the victims in their own house.” Lestrade looked down at the bodies again. The man was tall and of aryan descent. Beside him, presumably his wife if the other killings were anything to go by, lay a Middle Eastern woman. Her eyes were still open, her mouth twisted in something between a snarl of fear and a grimace of pain. They were still working to identify the bodies. “They’ve all been killed the same way; cleanly almost. Lab says on the past murders it was close range, possibly a Sig. You ought to know- I believe John carries a similar handgun.” Lestrade coughed once. “Illegally, I believe.” The detective inspector turned and returned to the street where his team waited impatiently and held up one finger as Anderson opened his mouth to voice an enquiry; he’d ask them to hold off and stay clear until Sherlock arrived. “The is clearly the work of a serial murderer, Sherlock, and we have little to go on. I’m sure you’d love the challenge?”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth turned up, begging to be turned into a full-on grin. “Very well, Detective Inspector,” he replied. “Text me the address and we shall be there shortly.” He hung up without waiting for a goodbye and turned to John, his smile widening. “John! We’ve got a serial killer!” He leapt up from his chair and disappeared down the hallway to change out of his pyjamas. “Five couples killed in the span of a month. It’s like my birthday all over again. Brilliant!” He reappeared several moments later, fully dressed and pulling his suit jacket on over his shoulders. “Come along, John. We’ve got some murders to solve.” He bounded towards the door, prepared to race downstairs, but stopped with his hand on the doorknob. _Wait for John._ He removed his hand and clasped them behind his back, waiting patiently for John to get up from his seat on the sofa.

The doctor rolled his eyes and rose to his feet, pausing to grab his coat and shrug it on. “Go on, go on,” He waved Sherlock forward and his eyes lit with a knowing amusement as he watched his flatmate race down the steps, dark curls bouncing. “You know,” called John as he hit the landing, “it’s really not quite proper to be so excited about murders, Sherlock,” His voice was light, teasing, and the detective turned from where he waited by the front door and grinned delightedly at him. The taller man flung open the door and they stepped out onto the street.

“How curious,” Sherlock murmured to himself as he pored over the case files Lestrade had given him. “Five married couples, all different ages, different backgrounds, different stages of life. There’s essentially no pattern here except that they’re all married. Odd motivation for serial killing, unless our murderer went through a particularly nasty divorce.” He examined the crime scene photos in his hands. “Perfect executions, all of them. Nothing telling in their personal lives, all model citizens for the most part.” He glanced over at John. “ _John_. Are you even listening?”

"Hmm?” John blinked once and shook himself. “Sorry, what? Oh.” He glanced at the photographs Sherlock held, the medic in him breaking down what he saw, the vacant eyes and the rusty colors dripping over stiff faces. These were clean crimes, executions as the detective had said- almost too clean. “There’s, ah, a ricochet on this one.” He pointed to one man, at the bloody wound in the center of his bronzed forehead, and then at the report from the morgue, all charts and chemical levels and blocky text. “See, it’s the only one with anything like that; the bullet bounced off of the back of his skull and rebounded. The others are all very neat, not that rebound isn’t partially chance, but they’re too neat. The killer would have to be pretty strong to get these people still enough to get off a shot like that so many times.” The doctor pinched the bridge of his nose as he lapsed into silence; Sherlock was probably already ten steps ahead. As always. “They’re at least a good shot,” he offered.

“Yes, thank you, brilliant observation, Dr. Watson.” The sarcasm dripped from each word and splattered onto the floor. “But the ricochet . . . hmm. Yes. Interesting.” Sherlock pulled the photo from the file and peered at it intently. “Military training would never allow for such sloppiness. So it’s a self-trained person, most likely. Fancies himself to be a vigilante of some sort. But why these people? What is it about them that invites death?” He tapped the edge of the photo to his chin, thoughts spinning in his mind. “Wait.” He shuffled through the pile until he was able to pull out the five photos that showed the bodies together. “Tell me, John. What do you notice about these people? And yes, you are allowed to point out the obvious in this one.”

Leave it to Sherlock to find the one impossibly small detail. After firing a questioning stare at the detective, he leaned forward and peered at the pictures. “Well, there’s really not much to bring them all together,” he supplied after a moment. Eyes traced along the bodies, laid out as they had been found at their respective scenes. It was really a hodge podge of information; different backgrounds, different disposals. Four decade age gap. There was really nothing he could see connecting the murders besides the method they were killed. “There isn’t anything that jumps out. I mean, look at them,” John gestured towards the photos with one hand and met his flatmate’s eyes before turning back to the files. “Different ages, heights, weights, genders, ethnicities.”

Sherlock’s eyes twinkled with John’s last words. “Yes. Ethnicities. And what do you observe about their ethnicities, John?” He tapped the photos with his fingers. “Look closely. What do you see?” His voice softened as he waited for John’s response.

He studied the photographs again. “They’re all different- oh.” John looked up, his brow furrowing, and met Sherlock’s gaze. “All of these couples are made up of people of different races. So these murders, they’re all racially motivated?”

“YES!” Sherlock’s face broke into a wide grin. “Oh, how very, very interesting. Racially motivated killings, but not limited to one particular race. It is the intermingling of the races that drives this one - and things don’t get much more intimate than marriage, don’t you think?” He flew across the room to announce his deductions to Lestrade. “Look, Detective Inspector. Every last one of them, interracial couples. Clearly our killer has got some interesting ideas about race, probably had some sort of neo-Nazi upbringing, perhaps some radical religious beliefs as well. No doubt he’s looking for an audience, someone to preach his message of purity to. Any messages found with the bodies? Any sort of note or sign left with them? Or something sent to the Yard, by chance?”

Lestrade held up one patient finger as he finished speaking to one of his lackeys and then turned to the detective. “We haven’t had anything sent to the Yard recently,” he responded with a thoughtful expression. One hand tucked beneath his elbow as he reached up to scrub the nape of his neck, his eyes glazed as he pondered. “You’ve seen just as much of the bodies as we have, and I don’t think we found anything out of the ordinary. No messages, letters- hold on.” His face lit up. “Donovan, fetch that newspaper from my desk, would you?” He flipped through the gray pages quickly, past colored advertisements and reports, and then held the section out for Sherlock to see. “Here. Third column.”

Sherlock took the newspaper and read the section aloud to himself. “ _Races are not to be contaminated by the blood of others . . . must remain pure . . . disgrace to humanity . . . receive their due reward . . ._ lovely. Not anything that particularly screams ‘serial killer,’ just your usual brand of mental.”

“This isn’t the first one,” Anderson piped up, lifting a hand to draw Sherlock’s attention. “There’s been three or four other ones in the past several weeks. All raving about races and supremacy and other nonsense.”

“Well - now that does scream ‘serial killer’. Well done, Anderson, it appears you’ve grown a tiny bit useful in my time away.” Sherlock dumped the newspaper pages into Anderson’s hand and returned to John’s side. “John, we’ve got to lure this one out. What do you say we write a letter to the editor?”

* * *

“Interesting letter,” The man nodded to Sherlock as he leaned against the wall; seemingly having given up trying to evade them through the back alleys of London. “I don’t get chased around much, so I’ll go out on a limb and assume you’re the writer.” With a crisp snap, he opened the newspaper in his hands and began to read aloud. “ _We are a lost and mindless people, unable to see the changes that need to be made within our own races. Purity is of the utmost importance, even if the masses cannot fathom why. We wish to be educated. April 13th. 2 PM. Signed, a consulting detective._ ” He looked over at the pair, eye bright atop his newspaper, which he then folded neatly and tucked beneath one arm. “Hello, Mister Consulting Detective, and friend. You two don’t seem the type to crave enlightenment.”

“On the contrary,” Sherlock replied, clasping his hands behind his back. “The mind is an ever-evolving organ, continuously adding and deleting information, sorting through what is relevant and what is not. Enlightenment is vital to keeping the brain active. Wouldn't you agree, John?" He took a few steps to his left in a wide, lazy circle round the man. "Sherlock Holmes. Pleasure." He dipped his head in mock acknowledgment. "So tell me, how is it that the world is so misguided and has missed your entire train of thought?"

His lips curled back into a snarl as he barked a coughing, humorless laugh. Tension stretched about their gathering like strings pulled taut as the man fixed Sherlock with a heavy-laden stare. "Don't try to fool me into believing that you truly wish to learn; we both know that my teachings will fall on deaf ears," he chided. Dark eyes tracked the detective's broad, predatory sweep, alight with a calculating interest. "I've heard of you. The false genius. Funny that you'd turn up here when our goals aren't so far off; you doing your civic duty, and I mine."

“Civic duty? Interesting choice of words. Much as I’d like to cleanse the human gene pool of stupidity, that is the duty of natural selection. It is not my place to decide who lives and who dies.” Sherlock paused, his eyes narrowed. “If you are so certain your message will go ignored, why bother to spread it? It’s a futile mission, and it leaves one hell of a mess to clean up. So either you’re hiding behind this mask of racism or you genuinely think I am stupid. It’s incredibly insulting, regardless of the reason. So let’s try this again: what, exactly, is the message the rest of us have missed?”

This elicited another laugh, one that rolled through the man’s entire body and his shoulders shook and he threw his head back. When the chuckling faded, he faced the pair again and his gaze bored into the detective’s. “Can’t you figure it out, Mister?” he taunted with a quiet glee. “I suppose you were labelled a _fake_ genius, after all.” A more serious tone entered his voice as he crossed his arms. “Think back, if you would, and consider any one of the world’s social leaders. If they had not kept up their conviction, what sort of mess would we be in today? Even if there are few who listen, I must carry on with my lesson.”

“Right, okay, this is getting ridiculous,” John muttered, rubbing a hand over his forehead. “Look, you _killed_ people. Husbands, wives, parents and grandparents. You can’t just go round killing people who don’t agree with your ideals!”

Sherlock dipped his head. “John is correct. And besides that, it won’t be enough. You know that. It wasn’t enough for Mummy and Daddy, and it won’t be enough for anyone else, either. You’re just a squeaky little rat living under the floorboards, a nasty little inconvenience for everyone involved. You haven’t got any message to speak of, you just cause trouble for the sake of causing it, and in the end you will lie forgotten in the dust.”

“No, no, NO!” A real anger surfaced, overtaking the mild annoyance and surging into his dark eyes like hellfire. “You’re wrong,” he hissed. “Just as everyone else is. I am changing the way people interact- it’s small now, yes, but it’s growing.” He glared first at John and then at Sherlock as he fumed. “I am righteous in my cause, and I will purify the world from this disgusting and degenerative folly.”

“You have nothing to show for your actions but a growing list of felonies. When I have you arrested, you will be paraded before the press as a disgrace to humanity before you are locked in a cell to rot. You have no leverage, nothing to persuade us of your arguments.” Sherlock held back a smile. “Perhaps we are seeing natural selection in progress, after all.”

The man raised an eyebrow cheekily, the rage fading from his face to be replaced by a deadly calm. His words were sharp. Clipped. Bitten. “All visionaries were once called madmen; you play no part in the path of history.” A grin played about his lips, dangerous and very hungry all at once, but he began to back away. As he edged into the side alley, his eyes darting, he laughed a final time. “I will purge again, Mister. I will burn them all, anyone who dares- who has the _audacity_ to contaminate.” And with that he turned smartly on his heels and hurried away.

John turned to look at Sherlock. “Aren’t you going to go after him?”

“No.”

“But he nearly confessed to -”

“Doesn’t matter. We’ve got no evidence to hold him. We don’t even know his name.” Sherlock adjusted his collar. “He’ll turn up again. We’ll just have to wait him out.”

And with that, Sherlock turned and walked back down the way they had come, John following close behind.

* * *

A low buzzing brought the detective out of his thoughts, which whirled in a primordial hurricane of theories and estimations. He surfaced slowly and as his glacial eyes focused on the vibrating mobile a smirk curled about his lips. One hand flashed out and seized the device, a thumb silenced it, and then he brought the phone to his ear as the detective inspector’s voice began cracking through the speakers.

“Sherlock, we’ve got a problem.” Lestrade let out a low breath. “He’s escalated.”

He frowned. “How so?”

“There’s been another murder. A whole family this time. Father is of Asian descent, mother looks to be a Pacific Islander, they’ve got four children. Every last one of them, executed in their own house.”

“Interesting,” Sherlock returned in an uninterested voice. Mustn’t give too much away. “Text me the address.”

“Will do. Brace yourselves - it’s not pretty.”

The mobile clicked as Lestrade disconnected. A dangerous smile quirked on Sherlock’s lips as he waited for the message; this was better than Christmas, better than a pack of cigarettes on a cold winter’s morning. At last his phone gave a little chirp and the screen lit up with a few lines of text. “John,” he called. The detective stood in a fluid motion and dropped the mobile into one of his deep pockets, pausing to pull on his gloves. “Get your coat.”


End file.
